A Fisherman in Theramore
by Felstaff
Summary: Having travelled through the treacherous lands of Dustwallow and the desolation of the Barrens, the stonemason-turned-rogue finds himself alone in the canyon of the Thousand Needles. Chapter XXIV: Wail of the Harpies
1. Sea Turtles

**A Fisherman in Theramore**

**Chapter i**

"Turtles?"

"Aye, turtles. And there's not much meat on these young 'uns"

"So, you want to make soup?"

"Aye. Still, borin' an' all that. Ye might wanna be sunnin' yerself a bit there lad. A bit pale ye seem. Must be too much of that time up in Witch."

I passed off the rest of the conversation with a few nods and flicks of the eyes to scan the horizon over the stout little dwarf's head. He got the message and thrust the flimsy wooden fishing pole in my hands. I asked him what for.

"Ye'll need to catch some fish first. The turtles are a bit smart round 'ere. Greedy gubbins too. They'll mostly ignore ye unless ye've a tasty morsel."

He reached into his pockets and took out a few brightly coloured balls. They smelled rank.

"Bright baubles, laddie. Give off a strange smell that fish are attracted to. Don't put 'em on yer hands or they'll stink fer a week!" He thrust them into my backpack. I gagged a little and closed the strap shut. I had a sickening feeling that they would make everything else in my

"I thought you were a stonemason, anyways?" He asked

"I was" I replied.

"Shame really. Noble art that, stonemasonin'. Now these turtles bite, and bite hard. Ye might lose a finger if ye're not careful, boy. Where's yer dirk?"

I took out my little blade. It was dull in colour but still as sharp as the day I bought it.

"Ye'll not kill nowt wi'that. Give us it 'ere."

He grabbed the knife and ran to the grindstone in the back room, sending pretty blue sparks off in all directions. I protested, but the damage was already done. He handed it back, and I could see the blade had been bent and was quite uneven now the silly dwarf had applied the wrong pressure against the spinning coarse stone. Parts of the blade were shiny, other parts were still dull. The knife looked useless.

"A fine dirk that'll make" The dwarf seemed pleased with his handiwork, or lack of it in my opinion. "Now off with yeh."

Perhaps I should explain a little. My father's off at war, far from here. We get a small amount of his earnings, but it's not enough to cover food for the four of us (mother, me, and two sisters.) With little money coming in, mother is always yelling at me to get a job. My sister's haven't finished schooling yet. The youngest one is quite talented with a bow and arrow. She has a pet wolf, stringy little thing, who she trained to collect the arrows for her. A regular little hunter, she is. I do bits here and there around the town. I'm good with my hands, and the castle in Theramore Isle regularly needs maintenance, so the soldiers shacked up there give me a few coins every week to replace the aging stone. Anyway, the cost of the war is so great now; they can't afford to keep me around as handyman. I tried cooking for the landlord at the Cleef's Locker, but I'm not too fond of the smell of devilled eggs and fish heads. The travellers love them though.

So I went foraging around the island deltas south of here. I accidentally stumbled onto Nagle's land, Nagle being an old hermit who lives on this remote little patch of sand in the middle of the crystal waters. At first he thought I was a Defias thief and dropped a net on me.

"Who are you and what are you doing on my land?" He cried, brandishing a pretty grisly mace. His teeth gritted on a gnarled pipe.

I told him my name.

"Sounds like trickery to me! Whose son are you?"

"I am son of Felstaff"

"Felstaff, the old rogue, eh? I wouldn't be going around boasting that if I were you. Some people don't like professional thieves and tricksters in their mix"

"My father is honourable." I said, slightly wounded by his barbed comment.

"I heard they dragged him off to war, kicking and screaming" Nagle taunted. What an old goat!

"You are ill-informed. He was approached by the ess eyes. From Stormwind."

"I know where the ess eyes are from, boy. And ess eyes don't approach you. You approach them, if you can find them, that is."

"Nevertheless" I said, "they did. And you should show a little respect for that."

Nagle chewed on his pipe, and lowered his mace. His mood lightened and he smiled a broad smile. His teeth were browned from the sungrass herbs in his pipe. He was a bizarre coot. "Now boy, I recognise you. Stonemason, right? Up in Theramore? Yes. Say, do you know how to fish?"

"No" I replied, "And can you get me out of this net?"

I started visiting Nagle often after that, and he taught me to fish. He was very good at it too. He wrote a book on it once, and sells a copy on to anyone passing through for the cost that would keep my whole family well-fed for an entire month. He let me read a few chapters. It was full of tips and techniques, and interspersed with wild stories about how he once caught a gleaming sword from an ancient civilisation. As he pulled it up, the water glowed with its radiance, as if the metal contained an invisible fire. Nagle would tell me that story again and again, over-elaborating more so each time, until the sword became the size of a man, and blinded all the fish around him with its burning light. The owner of the sword, by the fifth retelling, was now a demi-god from the underworld; an ancient being that wrought havoc upon the entire realm.

I was just interested in fishing. It meant we didn't have to pay for food, when I brought home a large satchel of wriggling oily blackmouth fish, my family was amazed and thanked me for the bounty. We had fish all the time. After a while, my sisters began to complain that only eating fish was making them feel ill a lot, and our house began to smell rotten. So, I decided to sell the fish for money, and that's where we are right now.

The dwarf, from a little hut near the tavern, is going to pay me quite a lot to catch turtles, even though I offered him my services for fishing.

I set out towards the edge of the island. After a while, the undergrowth became extremely thick, and I had to fight my way through it, occasionally using the dirk to swipe away a few rogue branches. I thought I heard something like a cow and looked up. Perhaps it was my eyes playing tricks on me. It was the middle of the day but quite dark when you were steeped in twelve-foot brambles. Ahead of me there was a shadow, making a strange grunting sound. It was larger than a man, and I was suddenly afraid. Whatever it was, I couldn't make it out, and it disappeared into the thicket. I proceeded with more caution.

By the time I reached the beach, my legs were scratched and bleeding. I rubbed some berry oil onto the lacerations, which stung horribly, making me bite down on my lower lip and gasp, and wrapped my legs in some linen cloth I had stolen from the armoury at Theramore. The pain subsided and I headed out onto the beach.

It was a bright day, perfect beach weather, although it was not safe for swimming in this part of the island. There was abundance of fish here, and as a result, predatory sharks. Old Tealy, a friend of my father's, had once swum over to the island I was now looking at. He had only got halfway there before something pulled him under the water. I was there that day, but I was too young to remember it. My father still tells fond stories of Old Tealy and vowed to one day kill the shark, or whatever it was, that pulled him under the water.

I sat down. The beach was deserted. Only the gentle sound of waves lapping against sand could be heard. I felt a desire to throw my things down and just lay there, lazily dozing until the sun went down. So I did. I closed my eyes and felt the warmth of the sun add colour to my pale cheeks.

I don't know how long I had been there, but I was awoken when a shadow passed over my face, robbing me of my sun and making me jump up, alerted. It was a turtle. It was huge; larger than me. I was suddenly very frightened and tensed my body, not daring to move. The turtle passed its windowless, beady eye over me, and decided I wasn't worth bothering about. It leaned its head slowly towards my rucksack and inspected it with its eyes, nose and beak. It was such a slow, weary character, I thought I could sit up, remove my dirk and slit its sagging throat at a leisurely pace before it even acknowledged my intentions. This is what I planned, anyway. I sat up; the turtle paused momentarily, as if assessing my threat level, before yawning its way back to the intriguing rucksack. I slid my hand to my pocket, where the dirk lay secure. I unbuttoned the holster, removed the blade and moved it up to a striking position. I was about to go for it, when the turtle did something unexpected. All this time, it had been bumbling slowly along, not looking like much of a threat but that all changed in an instant. It charged its head down onto my rucksack and ripped into it with its tremendously powerful beak. Once it had the pack in its vice-grip jaws it violently shook its head, sending all my belongings flying, and ripping the leather backpack to pieces.


	2. The Great Beach Battle

Chapter ii

I was frozen. The turtle had moved from lumbering beast to violent, thrashing, terrifying monster in seconds. My pack was destroyed. The turtle nuzzled its gaping beak into the remains, and pulled out a bag of brightly coloured baubles. The smell hit my nose hard and I suppressed a gagging reflex. The turtle noticed my wretch and swung its animated head towards me, and sniffed. A bauble glinted, propped inside the turtle's purple mouth. Then it was gone as the turtle crunched down, hard, obliterating the small colourful marble. The powerful jaws made me gasp a little, and still the turtle stared at me with a blank interest. The exchange between our eyes lasted, in my mind, for far too long. A seagull crawed and the moment vanished. The turtle had found what he had sniffed out, and began to blunder on again towards the glassy ocean, chewing loudly on the stench-ridden baubles.

After sitting dumbfounded for over a minute, I came to my senses and wiped my brow. My forehead was dripping sweat and I made things uncomfortable by accidentally massaging grit into it with my sandy hands. After a few minutes wiping off all the sand that had accumulated on my arms, face and neck, I examined my pack. All the baubles had gone. I would have to catch fish using trusty old methods, although I had never fished out here on this beach before. I'm sure the fish were the same as at the old Crystalwater. My fishing pole was in four pieces, scattered over the beach. Fortunately, the gnarled wood was not broken, and the pieces slotted back with satisfying clicks. I unbundled some line, which had become entangled around the roasted clamshells I had brought with me for supper. I reached for my dirk. How bent the dwarf had made it! It looked like I had unsuccessfully tried to prize open a locked chest with it. I ran a finger down the beaten blade—still sharp enough to do the trick, I suppose—and prized open the clams. The shell had retained the heat and a beautiful thick scent of baked seafood bloomed out. I sliced off a small nugget of zesty clam meat, avoiding taking too much of the fine spices I had laced them with, and wrapped the slippery piece around the lure.

I wasn't thinking, clearly. The smell must have attracted the nose of every giant turtle for a mile. I looked up, and sure enough four turtles were ambling my way. Two of them ungracefully bumped each other, but neither paid notice; they were all busy following their noses. I snapped the clam shut and buried it in the sand. The turtles carried on ambling for a moment, but then gave a look as if they had forgotten what their destination was, and one by one they turned off at tangents and wandered towards other aimless targets.

I guess I could have just attracted all the turtles I could and picked off the smaller, weaker ones, but I wasn't sure what a giant sea turtle would do if I attacked one of its brethren. How could I possibly get one single turtle alone? I wandered down the beach. It was deserted now. A few turtle tracks made their way between the shrubbery behind the beach to the water, and every now and again the placid waves were disturbed by a shell breaking the surface. I came across an upturned boat. It was small and covered in barnacles. I daresay it had been abandoned many seasons ago, and the weather had given it a fair beating. It still could be seaworthy.

I had other plans, however. Notably, it would suffice as the box for the age-old trap. I found a branch, twice the length of my arm, and propped up the hull. Using a bit more line, I attached one end to the branch, and moved a length or two out the way. The trap was set.

There's no bait! I thought. I had left my clambake buried in the sand down the beach. Curses. I grabbed my fishing pole with lure and cast off into the sea. An old trick for fishermen, this—stare at the water and see past the glint of the surface. If you keep your eyes trained long enough, they adapt and you can see through the water. It takes years of concentration to get the 'fishing stare' right, but once you master it, you can turn the opaque sparkling sea completely transparent without moving your eyes. It was a particularly sunny day, so the glare off the water was intense, but I managed to stare and concentrate hard enough until the water became totally clear, and the shimmering surface vanished.

Looking into this underwater world, I could see school after school of mindless, circling fish of many colours. Beautiful was the scene, and yet people walk past these shores and never see further than the reflection of the sun on the water's surface. This place was clearly an untapped resource. The fish were bountiful here. I could catch so many in a day as to feed the whole village for a week. Think of the money!

I drifted my lure towards a particularly volatile troop of orange fish. They looked like sage or possibly mudfish. I'm sure a culinary delight for turtles. They were moving in very fast clockwise circles, I drifted my lure in time to their movements. After only a few minutes, one bit hard and tugged eagerly on the line. With a professional flick of my wrists, the taut line twanged and the lure reeled out the water, mudfish in tow. I had my dirk ready and waiting, and held it tight as the fish flew out the water towards me. I skilfully skewered it as it flung through the air. I pulled the lure and hook out of from its cheek; it stared mournfully at me, wide-eyed, mouth agape. The knife had run it through so precisely, it could not even writhe, and it died without much consternation within a minute. I slid the knife out, and rubbed off the excess slime with a left-over piece of linen cloth.

The sun was hanging between the sea and the sky, turning the horizon into a warm amber, and the sky above me a deeper blue. I could only see one cloud, wispy and lonesome, as I removed the eighth fish from my dirk. In between bites, I had left my fishing rod alone in the sand, and used a flint pebble to knock the dirk into a straighter alignment, on a large sandy rock. I had a varying degree of success. The dirk was straighter indeed, but small scratches and indentations danced along one edge.

It was time to catch my first turtle. One had ambled alongside me earlier, and passed my collections of mud and sagefish without any hint of interest. Using some tinder I had in a pocket (the rest of the tinder had been lost when my pack was savaged), I gathered some sticks and kindling from the beachfront and the shrubbery, and started a small fire using the flint. Not caring too much for preparation or appearance, I flung a fish straight on the flames. After a few minutes, a glorious thick smell of sage wafted down the beach. The cooked fish's eye popped, signalling that it was done. I tossed it under the boat and waited.

The water was disturbed and bubbled. A shell emerged, followed by a head. A lone turtle had answered the call of cooked fish. Like me, cooked sagefish does not smell as appetising to turtles as baked clams, which hopefully explains why only one turtle was interested. Still, I hadn't planned on the size of the turtle.

As it emerged from the deepening orange waters, I gathered how immense this potential catch was. It was twice the size of any other turtle I had encountered (the first turtle, that ripped my pack apart, was the smallest of the day). Its head was roughly the size of my torso and its shell was nearly the size of the boat.

I hadn't entered this into my logistics. How was I supposed to ensnare something that was larger than my trap? The turtle curiously poked its head under the wooden boat and clambered its way in, nearly knocking out the carefully-placed branch. It barely fit inside the hull and I took a deep breath as I yanked the line, jerking the branch out from underneath its resting place. The boat came crashing down. The turtle made a brutish gargling sound, and yelped. The boat was just heavy enough to weigh down the turtle, and large enough so the edges had dug into the ground.

I had trapped my first turtle. And it was massive. Now all I had to do was kill it. Through a worn hole in the stern of the row boat I gazed in and saw the helpless turtle. The darkness inside the boat had calmed it, and it lay motionless, staring out of the small hole where my eye was now pondering it. I would need to cut its throat, but I couldn't fit my arm in through the hole, let alone reach past the huge leathery neck and find the jugular.

I had another idea. Although it did not seem that it would end cleanly. I would need to prop the boat up so the turtle would poke its head through, and then drop the heavy load on its neck, hopefully breaking it. I tried this. The turtle instantly nipped at my fingers as soon as I placed them under the rim of the bow. Had it been accurate, I could be missing my index finger by now. I counted my self lucky and used the branch to lever the boat.

As soon as it was an inch or two off the sand the large beak began to truffle through. The head was knocking hard against the wood and I thought the weakened boat may give way to the brute strength of the turtle. It didn't, but the turtle managed to nuzzle its head out the widening maw. I saw my chance and wrenched the branch away, dropping the heavy wooden stern with a dull sickening thud against the turtle's head. I head the loud snap of what I thought was a dry twig broken underfoot, but it must have been the turtle's neck, as the poor thing lay motionless; dead.

I felt almost as sorry for its passing as I did the fish. It had looked so confused and befuddled as it lay trapped in its gaol-cell. I heaved the boat up and over the turtle. The fish lay uneaten by the dead turtle's head. I pulled a strip of warm cooked fish flesh and chewed it morosely as I began to carve up the giant dead turtle.


	3. Unexpected Encounter

Chapter iii

It was several weeks later, and in the meantime I had been making quite a lot of money on the side selling turtle meat to the locals, alongside the huge bounty of fish which Nollward, the young cook at the Cleef's Locker would buy in bulk. I spent the majority of my days on the beach, lazing in the sun, catching fish and turtles. I had built up quite a fortress of shells. Occasionally I used some of the larger ones as a boat, and ferried over towards the small islands that dotted the horizon. I never landed on them though. There were creatures on some of them that I only saw from afar. Strange creatures that peeked out from the foliage and behind the drooping palms; their eyes glinted a strange blue light.

Mostly, I would catch a turtle in the morning and boil up some stew in its own shell. Many travellers passed me throughout the day on horseback, and if they understood my language I sold a bowl of stew to them for a few silver. If they didn't understand me then I would sell them the soup for ten or more. We would sit and eat stew and if they were friendly, they would ask me about my hoard of turtle shells.

This was exactly what was happening when we were attacked.

I had been fishing, and had landed myself a fair few Firefin Snappers. Nollward loved these, as they were so easy to cook and, despite the deep grey clouds and the mist obscuring the islands out in the water, my mood was quite chipper. From the shrubbery behind me, over the sand dunes, I heard a galloping. Although it did not sound like horse's hooves to me; almost a light padding, my first thoughts were a charging wolf. I braced myself and withdrew my Talbuk dirk. (With the money I had made, I had sold my old bent dirk to the dwarf and bought myself a new one. This one was far more powerful and shiny, with the blade sharp enough to carve the loins off a Talbuk, or elk, hence its name.)

The creature, whatever it was, was larger than a wolf and it bounded through the florae. I could hardly believe my eyes. It was a giant white tiger-like creature, but much broader, and it pounced upon me. I didn't have time to attack it, and the shiny knife flew out my hands, embedded helplessly in the sand. I crashed on my back and shut my eyes tight.

Nothing happened.

I cautiously opened one eye and saw it leaning over me. It was not a tiger, for it was a brilliant white, with leopard-like black spots along its side. It sniffed me curiously, and I saw it had a rider.

The rider leant from behind his mount and called in an unknown language to me something that sounded like "_Fandu dath belore_?"

"What?" I said, dumbfounded

"Asha?" He replied.

"I'm sorry, I don't speak …Asha."

The strange man laughed a deep booming laugh and hopped off his mount. He whispered an endearment to his leopard-like tiger mount and it bounded off merrily into the forest, leaving the two of us alone.

I had time now to examine the stranger. He was taller than a man, and broader. His face was an ashen powdery colour; almost purple in hue. His eyes were blazing stars with no pupils and his ears were long and elfin. He was wearing an outrageous assortment of chain-mail clothing of many different colours. The chainlinked metal had dulled and was dented and worn. He looked like he had survived a few battles.

"Elune be with you, stranger" He smiled and grabbed my arm, hoisting me up as if I were no heavier than a rag-doll. "I must apologise for my wild entrance, but escaping from the creatures of the marshes leaves one in a state of panic. Sometimes it's hard to control Dunafalore and she bolts away at the first sign of trouble."

Dunafalore, I gathered, was his mount. "What is she?" I asked

"Dunafalore? She is my sabre. Purebred too, from the Alterac valley." I had heard of that place. I think my father was garrisoned there for a month or so before it was overrun and he had to retreat. His letters were heavily censored, and they never told us where he would be stationed next, in case they fell into the hands of the enemy. We would sometimes be able to read a few words that hadn't been scrawled out by the censor's barbaric pen and I gathered that my father's battalion had lost a very important marshal in the battle, and they retreated to the safety of the hills. "Are you alright?" He asked, interrupting my thought.

"Yes" I replied, "Are you from Alterac?"

He laughed again, that loud booming cachinnation. "Cannot you tell from my appearance that I am certainly not from the Alterac region?"

"I have never travelled outside of Theramore" I admitted, "I know little of the outside world. I don't even—" I paused, wondering if I should ask this lest it offends him, "I don't even know what you are."

A look of becoming came over him and he fawned over me, laughing a little more gently. "One of Kalimdor's untouched children then? I envy you, for you know nothing of war."

"My father is at war, under the banner of Marhsal Afrasiabi" I said.

"I have fought under Field Marshal Afrasiabi of Stormwind" He said majestically, "Perhaps I know your father"

"His name is Felstaff the rogue" I asked, a glint of hope in my eyes.

"I have not heard of that name. Although there are many rogues that fight for us, most of them do not fight in the daylight, preferring to fight in the shadows instead. I suppose he is an excellent spy, which is why I have not heard his name."

I was slightly confused by this comment. The stranger saw my perplexity and continued.

"They teach many rogues to turn invisible and infiltrate the enemy. They are at greater risk of capture then, so the ess eyes prefer not to let them mix with the rest of the soldiers, for fear that they may give up valuable information under torture." I was suddenly bereft of air as he mentioned the word torture, and the thought of my father being captured left a nauseating feeling in the pit of my stomach. The stranger noticed this reaction, also "I am sorry to have caused doubt and upset in your mind. I will enquire at the garrison in Theramore for word of your father. Doctor Van Howzen knows the fate of all soldiers."

I felt little reassurance. "Thank you"

"I am Band, son of Bandu, a Night Elf. To the human tongue, that literally means Fight, son of Fighter."

I nodded. "I am son of Felstaff."

The Night Elf looked puzzled "You have no name?"

I noticed the stew was boiling too much, so I shifted the huge turtle shell away from the embers, and the stew calmed. I turned to Band, "please, sit with me. Have some stew." I dipped two bowls into the thick broth, ensuring Band's bowl contained a lot of meat. Band sat down and gazed over to the islands. He took the bowl and thanked me.

"How much for this fine stew?" He asked

"Usually I charge a few silver, but as you have offered me a service, this is my payment to you." I said. Band smiled and clinked my bowl with his. We sat and looked out to sea, drinking deep the thick sweet soup.

Band seemed in no rush to continue his journey so I asked him about the war. He told me there was a stalemate between our forces and the enemy. He brought up place names that were all a mystery to me. The only one I had any recognition of was a place called Outland. When I was at school there was a myth that there was a portal somewhere on the Eastern Kingdoms that led you to a magical realm called Outland. Of course, it was all just children's gossip and fantasy. No place like that could exist. Band seemed disheartened by the war. Of the enemy, he said there were barbaric races desiring to take over the entire world, and that some day they may reach the gates of Theramore, if things went badly. "This" he said "would of course never happen in our lifetimes, but possibly in our children's or children's children's lifetimes should we fail now."

I learnt little from Band, except the fact that we were making progress in some unfamiliar land and retreating in others. The casualties were high, but Band spoke of further threats in such an airy dream-like way that I did not understand what these threats were and hence, took no notice. Band also tired of the war and we ate in silence. I had brought some extra spices with me in my new pack (Mr. Worthington, a tailor in Theramore had made me a beautiful green silk pack in exchange for my recipe for salty turtle bisque)

Band was examining the large pile of turtle shells I had acquired.

"Interesting" he said, "that these Mudrock turtles' shells are so spiky."

I added some mild spices to his bowl and asked why.

"Our shields are often damaged in battle. How menacing an army would look holding these shells in formation, chanting '_Ana'duna Thera_!' and mercilessly crashing into them!" he ran a finger over a large spike, and suddenly retracted as if he had been bitten. His finger oozed blood from a perfectly straight razor cut. "How sharp" is all he said and wiped his bleeding finger across the tabard on his chest. The wound, I noticed, had quickly sealed itself and bled no more.

Band ran off down the beach and returned with a stiff, straight branch. He placed one end at the side of the shell and removed a hunting knife concealed in his ankle holster. Using the knife he made a notch where the shell ended on the other side and then skilfully cut the wood. Then he wedged the beam neatly into the shell so it held fast and held aloft his new shield, brutal as it was in this form. I was impressed. He also, was pleased with his shell-shield.

"I will take this to a blacksmith—with your permission, of course—and see if he can reinforce the inside with dark iron. With some extra work on it, this could make a fearsome shield. I will talk to my garrison leader when I return and see what he thinks about this. Perhaps you could sell these shells to the army if I succeed?"

The thought seemed quite exciting to me. The shells were far too heavy for me to lift and use with one arm, but Band managed it quite gracefully. As he tested it out, the weight of the shell made no impingement on his movement or agility at all. If anything, his agility seemed to be _increased _with it. Band slammed the shell down into the sand so it stayed upright and sat down next to me, to finish off the last of the stew.

This is when we were attacked.


	4. The Tiderunner

Chapter iv.

There was a light padding on the sand behind us. I had barely noticed it, and when I did notice it, I was too enraptured by my conversation with Band to pay it any mind.

It was the hideous, snarling gargle the creature belched that broke us from our concentrated conversation and whirl around. It was a sea creature of some kind, about half my height, but just as stocky as I, and built quite sturdily. Its body was shiny, with algae-green and blue scales covering its head, back and limbs, leaving only a slimy cream underbelly unprotected. It had a brown streak from the side of its blank eyes that run all the way down its body. Its head was akin to that of a fish, with jagged unaligned pointed teeth similar to the piranhas that Pagle kept in a small pond on his island. Fiendish little creatures they were, and could devour a calf's leg in a few seconds of bloody froth and bubbles. The glassy eyes stared ferociously. The lines of fins on its head, vibrant and menacing with livid colour, stood erect and signalled that the creature was aggressive and defensive.

The body was of more of a humanoid structure. It had a pair of arms and legs, with scaly claws and opposable thumbs. The hands were red with blood and gripped a crude wooden lance, which it aimed ahead of it as it swept towards us. The hideous gargling continued, and I could see trails of green saliva fly from its wide toothy mouth. It was issuing a war-cry, and the sound undoubtedly was rallying any more of these creatures within earshot.

Band was ready and attacking before I even had time to react. He had yanked the turtle-shell shield out of the ground, and deflected a glancing blow from the lurching creature. The wooden lance made a hefty clinking sound as it came into contact with the tough turtle hide. The creature recoiled in pain as the collision had reverberated all the way up the lance and through its arm. It didn't drop the lance. Band used this fractional moment to swiftly twist the shield so it was horizontal and use the base end to ram into the things' face. The thud was heavy and dull. The creature had blood between its eyes and blinked furiously. Band held the shield in one arm and swiftly withdrew the knife from his ankle. He sprang his arm forward towards the temporarily blinded sea-creature. It snarled and sensed the oncoming attack and swung the lance in a wide arc. The wooden lance caught Band's hand and sent the trajectory of the knife away from its face. It ducked and repositioned its stance, wiping the blood from its eyes. Band withdrew too and both stood in an aggressive defensive stance, locked in a tense standoff.

The creature looked stupid. Yet I saw a flash in its eye that betrayed a mysterious intelligence. He broke the deadlock and made the first move; a tame blow that struck Band's shield squarely. I realised what he was doing; he was testing the shield for weaknesses, without expending too much energy. He struck it again, higher this time. Band relaxed a little and began toying with the creature, allowing it to meekly strike the immovable shield. I was about to warn Band that the creature was lulling him into a false sense of security, but it was too late. The pair of fighters reactions were much faster than mine so I stood there, mouth agape, unable to conjugate the words needed. The thing made to strike the shield again, but feinted right and volleyed his lance behind the shield, straight to Band's side. The lance struck his thigh square on. It was not a strong enough weapon to pierce the thick chain leggings that Band wore, but it was forceful enough to knock Band off-guard and he fell to the ground. The shield crashed down on him, knocking his cheek and giving him minor concussion. The creature had the upper hand now, and it leapt upon the dazed Band and sought to thrust the spear into Band's eye. But Band was a warrior whose reactions were innate, and although his mind was spinning and his eyes unfocused, he swiped the knife at the creature's arms, and made a neat slice across its fingers. The thing howled and jumped up, nearly dropping the lance. Yet it held firm, and I saw him grip his wooden spear even tighter, forcing the strange viscous blood to seep harder through the razor-thin wound.

Whilst the creature was in mid-air, Band had regained a little composure and swung his leg deftly towards the airborne thing and booted it sweetly sideways. It travelled a fair few feet and crashed against a rock, dazed. Band was up on his feet. He dropped the knife in the sand, held his shield aloft and reached behind him, withdrawing a mighty sword, almost the size of the creature itself. He charged the creature, which was still coming to, and aimed squarely for its soft underbelly, which it had left exposed. The thing sensed danger and coiled itself. The sword clattered against the grizzling sea beast's head, shoring off a few of its vibrant fins. The creature squealed and gargled in terrible pain. The sword had not penetrated its intricate woven scales however.

The thing spat and reared its head, and lunged for band, teeth bared. It leapt high over him, and was about to come careering down on Band's head, when he adroitly lifted the shield above him so that it came between him and the creature.

The snarling brute crashed down onto the shield. It impaled itself upon the many spikes of the Mudrock turtle's shell and lay motionless. Band held the shield aloft for several seconds, but the creature did not move. It merely gurgled and spat as the life drained out of its body, and its fluids spilt over the edge of the shield, dripping off the edge like rain from a flowing gutter. The spikes had mostly found its soft squishy underbelly and the force of it clattering onto the shield had run them through its body. The spikes did not penetrate the scaly back of the thing, but left grotesque protrusions underneath it, as if the creature had a bad case of warts and boils. It breathed its last and the eyes dulled.

"Murloc" Band said. "They inhabit many coasts far from here. I must say I was not expecting them here, so close to Theramore. Looks like a Tiderunner to me. I could be incorrect, however"

Band tilted the shield downwards and the Murloc slid ungracefully off the shield and crumpled onto the sand. Band searched it. He pulled out a lace bag of coin from its waist, and a large clam from a pouch. It was slimy and covered in a fishy-smelling oil. The coin purse contained two pieces of silver. He handed one to me, and also the clam shell. I took it, and the slime on it seeped through my fingers.

"What was it doing attacking us?" I asked, prizing open the clam.

"They are creatures" he said, "of a volatile nature, and, I believe, are very territorial. Not many beaches are safe when Murlocs set up camp. What is that you have found?" He gestured towards my clam. I had pulled away the tangy meat (discarding it in the dwindling stew) to reveal a glowing, iridescent pearl. It shimmered and seemed as if the light source was inside the pearl. Band and I studied it. It was not reflective of light, and it appeared as if clouds were forming and whirling inside it.

"May I have it?" he asked.

I was enraptured by its power. I didn't want to part with it. Whenever I had found a pearl I had sold it for over twenty silver pieces at the market. Its value was constantly increasing. I pulled myself away from its seductive shimmer and faced Band. "I would not like to part with it, but as you have saved my life I shall give it as token of my appreciation." I handed it to him. "What are you going to do with it?"

He placed the pearl in a knapsack. "I am seeing a craftsman who will imbue it on this shield you have so kindly allowed me. Its properties should enhance the shield in mysterious ways. The craftsman himself is a very mystical man, and I am sure this is just an ingredient he needs to add certain powers and forces to the shield."

Band was talking in his airy, mysterious way, so I let the incident pass without comment. If someone wanted to nail the pearl to the shield, so be it.

"What are you going to call this shield?" He asked me. I was unsure. A few names passed through my mind.

"Either a Mudrock mauler, or a Murloc mauler. I am unsure." I turned to the dead Murloc. Its foot was twitching unpleasantly.

In the end we decided on Mudrock Mauler. Band promised, once his quest was complete, that he would return to the garrison and enquire about me. I was not too enthusiastic about working for the army again, as I had carved out my niche in the world as a fisherman in the last few weeks or so. I was happy with it. What I wasn't happy with was the fact that this beach no longer felt safe for me, and that I should best prepare myself if I were to come back again tomorrow.

I bid Band farewell, and he uttered a small chant which was barely audible to me. Dunafalore the sabre came bounding out the forest, as if from nowhere. How long had she been waiting for him? He leapt on her back.

"Elune be with you" he said, and saluted. "I shall return."

"And to you also" I said, but Dunafalore had already sped off down the beach, and my words were lost to the disturbed clouds of sand.


	5. Thomas' Encyclopædia

Chapter v.

Michael the Stable Master and Morgan Stern the eclectic chef were chatting in the tavern when I approached through the gates of Theramore. The guards gave me a hand shifting the large turtle shell over the ramparts, but once I was over the apex of the incline, I was able to slide it down the path myself all the way to the entrance of the Cleef's Locker. Michael used his hand to smear the grime away from the windows to get a better look. Smiling Jim was whistling. He stopped, turned his head towards my strange cargo and stopped whistling for a few seconds. Then he turned back and carried on his tuneless tootling. The weather had clouded on my return journey from the beach and was now driving down. The heat from the earlier sunshine had kept the atmosphere muggy, and I felt like I was getting wetter through sweat than rain. Michael came out of the inn and took a look in my giant turtle shell. The dead Murloc was inside.

Michael gasped. "Where did you find this?"

I stopped pushing. "It attacked me, on the beach."

"Which beach?"

"The Eastern shoreline, just north of this isle. Thought you might like to take a look at it."

Morgan had joined us by this time, and had taken a peek inside my shell. He didn't gasp, but had a quizzical look upon his face. "Did you kill it yourself?"

I shook my head. "No. It was a fellow called Band. One of those Elvin creatures."

Michael broke his gaze from the dead, crumpled creature. "Oh aye, I know Band. He rested at the Cleef a few nights ago. Important business, I heard. Had somewhere to go in Witch before the garrison headed him back out again. Poor guy—Elf—he was supposed to be on leave for several weeks too. Some of our soldiers never get a minute's rest."

I motioned to heave the heavy shell over the threshold of the Cleef's Locker and the two men helped me.

Inside the Cleef's Locker was a welcome warmth. The walls were dingy and peeling and you could barely see out the windows, particularly now it was darkening with rain and a little mist. The timbers were blackened with the smoke of a thousand pipes, and the centre of the place was awash with soothing yellow light from the burning wicks of grimy lanterns. The corners remained dark and dank, devoid of life. The tavern itself was built before any of the other buildings in Theramore. I smiled at that thought; wherever men settle, their first thought is to build a drinking establishment.

We hauled the carcass in shell over to a table, then lifted the dead Murloc out and flattened him upon the heavy oak. Janene, the youthful innkeeper protested. "Hoi! Don't think about dirtying my nice clean tables with your—what is that?"

"It's a Murloc" said Morgan

"I can see it's a Murloc, Stern. What's it doing in these parts?"

"It attacked our poor stonemason." Morgan clapped me on the shoulder. "Had to fight it off with his bare hands!"

"Did he now?" Janene looked impressed. I was about to interject with the truth, but she flustered "Like father, like son!"

"Janene, have you got an old shoebrush in the cellar? And a bucket of warm water?" Michael asked. "I need to examine this creature and have to get rid of all this caked mud, sand and slimy-goodness-knows-what off it."

Janene rushed off and brought back a worn brush and a bucket of cold water, which Stern hung over the fireplace. Janene lit the fire and soon the muggy wet heat inside the tavern turned to a comfortable dry warmth. The bucket heated up and Michael got Morgan and I to start cleaning the Murloc.

After a long time, and a lot of elbow grease, we managed to get the top layer of slime and caked filth off the creature. Its colours shone through and Michael was able to determine what kind of Murloc it was.

Underneath the turquoise and green slime, the creature was a creamy white. The fins jutting from its head and neck were a fiery red. From the eyes on its fish-like head down its curved spine was a wild brown line, flecked with brown livery spots. Thomas ran across the green to his stables and came back with an old book.

"It's an encyclopædia." Thomas said. "I've been collecting zoological periodicals and organised them into this anthology here." He opened up the large leather-bound scrapbook and leafed through the pages. Most were facsimile copies of the library on the other side of the island. There were some extraordinary illustrations of marvellous and bizarre animals through the pages. I nearly asked Thomas if I could borrow the book some time and admire the excellent paintings, each signed by a man named Thott. Thomas flicked through until the section on Murlocs came up. The section was rather big and full of notes, drawings, technical aspects such as bone structure, muscle structure, even known languages. Apparently the gargling I heard as it attacked us actually had meaning, but the limited scope of our own written language meant that it was impossible to pronounce the sounds these creatures make through letters or runes.

"Here we are" Thomas said as he reached a finely-detailed page. The content itself was anarchic, with notes of all aspects relating to the creature scratched out with no sense of order, completely filling the page. Most notes overlapped each other, and also with the pictures, leaving a mess of scrawled incomprehensibility. The beautiful illustrations were vandalised by a thousand overlapping letters and arrows pointing to every conceivable area of the Murloc. Thomas, appeared to make complete sense of the writings. "Ah yes. Amphibious. Ichthyoid. Classic Mirefin markings." He shifted his attention to the dead Murloc and examined the hands. "See how rough and grazed they are?" I felt the hands, and they had a horrid dry raspiness, as if the creature had spent its entire life burning its hands on rope. "This appears to be a coastrunner; or basic soldier and messenger of the Mirefin tribe. Not too smart, these ones. The hands are crudely skilled and there is no way this thing would have shamanic talents. What did he attack you with?"

"A short spear. Wooden." I said.

"Yes, then this is definitely a warrior. You saw no elements of the mysterious? No conjuring? No bright flashes of lights or sparks coming from it?"

I shook my head at each question.

"Then you were lucky my friend. Some of these things can summon the elements as if out from nothing, or so I have heard. This one was just the muscle with a stick. Where did he attack from?"

"The shrubbery behind the sandy coastline on the Dreadmurk shore."

Michael looked pensive. "That is much closer to us than these writings suggest. Here it says their tribe took over the coastline and small collection of islands just south of the Barrens, near Alcaz Island."

Morgan looked perturbed. "That's several leagues from the shore. This thing was closer to Theramore than it was to the Barrens."

"Perhaps it was a scout?" I suggested. The other two nodded in agreement.

We thought for a moment. Then Thomas said "Why would the Mirefin tribe want to send a scout to Theramore? There was no other place they could be sending it, as there's naught but miles of beach between the southern tip of Dustwallow and the Barrens."

Morgan replied. "I think you might be getting ahead of yourself there, Tom. You cannot possibly suggest an invasion by the Murlocs? They wouldn't get over the ramparts—they are too small!"

"But they are still a threat to us. I think they are trying to expand their colony." Thomas said. He flipped through several more pages. "Here. It says here that Murloc tribes are violently territorial and will attack Murlocs from neighbouring tribes if they encroach on their resources, such as fisheries or living space."

"Then what is threatening the Murlocs? What tribe is close enough to be pushing them southwards?" I asked. Thomas leafed through the pages. He came across a map of Eastern-Central Kalimdor, heavily scribbled upon with legends and arrows, colours and stains which meant nothing to me. Thomas examined the area around Theramore.

"The Mirefin tribe," he concluded, "are the only known settled tribe in these parts for nearest to one thousand years. And only now they are either expanding their settlement, or moving away from something they are fearful of—the only reason a Murloc would ever leave its habitat."

Morgan stood up. "We should inform the garrison. They could send a party up there to see what on earth could have frightened these things. Thomas, you go speak to Garran Vimes. He's untrustworthy enough to send out a small party. Besides, some of the practicing guards are vying to leave the training grounds and actually see some action." He pointed to me. "Go speak to Weston. He's had enough experience with Murlocs. See what he thinks of this. Hopefully he'll still be working in the smithy with that odd gnome creature at this time of the evening. And tell him he still owes me money from that archery contest. I'll go inform the gate to keep an extra watch out tonight, in case any coastrunners reach this far."

We all sprung into action. I felt a level of excitement rise over me. I suddenly wanted to become a soldier and help out the garrison. We made our way out of the warm tavern into the heavy rain, with mud splashing over my galoshes in my haste. I heard Janene's voice call from inside: "Hoi! You can't leave that thing lying on my table! You'll scare off the customers!" I heard no more as I had retreated a far enough distance in the direction of the smithy.


	6. A Letter From My Father

Chapter vi.

* * *

_Dear Imelda, _

_My letters over the past season, as my ear has sought out, did not reach you.  
The lines of communication are weak, and messengers are refusing to travel  
through all but the least dangerous of zones. My love, I hope this letter ends  
up in your hands and not of some marauding pirate or Horde. My command-  
ing officer, a sprightly tall elf of good nature, said that the communica . . . .__  
__. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ntain path and the land of . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .__  
red before the first leaf of the season falls. The censor keeps telling me not  
to write so much detail in my letters, as his quill often becomes blunted and  
useless from scratching out any information that might be of use to intercept-  
ors. I assure him not to worry, but he is burdened by the blight of bureaucracy!_

_Of the children, are my two beautiful daughters learning well? I trust they are  
old enough to have been made aware of the evils of the world and are now  
directing their intellect to the study of diplomacy and relations and to not of  
war. And my son, are his hands becoming more skilled with each precise  
chiselling of rough, hewn stone? I still remember of the days when he was a  
child, running between the sungrass bushels, and he would disappear—vanish   
almost—and you and the girls would laugh as you tried to find him. How  
Lacience would scream as he tiptoed behind her and cover her eyes! That was  
the day we suggested he should become like me and leave the masons to train  
as a soldier. How wise of him to say he will follow his own path! I would not  
wish the experiences I have had in this war upon anyone, least of all my own son._

_I hope you are healthy. I have been asking for leave the entire season,__ but alas,  
the war has broken out on further fronts and the m__ . . . . . . . . . .w; we are being  
ferried nearly every sunrise to a new and dangerous destination. Four nights . . .__  
__. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .ad not had sleep for __days and the . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  
__. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . omish creature . . . . . . . . . . . n__ leep under a tree in a . . .  
. . . . . . .beau. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .ng. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .wh__ose feet wilted the very grass on which they. . . . . . . . . . . .__  
_  
_. . . . . . . . ast and ruthless, and by the time we had chance to react, __t. . . . . . . . . .__  
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .ysician. My dear, I am sorry to have  
burdened your conscience with such macabre details, but sometimes the cruel   
memories can only be removed by transferring them onto parchment._

_I bring two tidings of good news; I have been __pr. . . . . . .__ in my__ ran. . . . . . . . . __ht.  
Secondly, we will be h. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . __nd once we r__each. . . . .  
__. . . . . . . . . . . .will be assured leave; this time for longer than a single day!_

_Give my love to the children, _

_k-F, o'T.  
_

* * *

I rolled the letter closed, blew out the lamplight and placed it back carefully on my mother's dresser, before heading out to the garrison. The bell from the town hall gonged heavily and the sound reverberated its way through the wet muggy atmosphere. The horses in Michael's stable brayed uncertainly, as thunderous clouds gathered and watched over Theramore island. 


	7. The Mysterious Cloak

Chapter vii

I arrived at the garrison and saw Michael attending to several horses. They were feisty and whinnying, so he tied them to the archery targets that were buried deep into the ground. They calmed down at his touch.

"Where's Morgan?" I asked.

"He is out on business," Michael said. "Saw him load up a carriage with clams and various cauldrons. Must be a large consignment heading out to the outposts on Witch Hill." The horses were silent now, and sniffing the grass. Michael and I headed through the gatehouse and into the keep. The sun shone strongly on the large bluish stones, and the inside was heated comfortably. We found the wooden spiral staircase on the western turret and headed up it, higher and higher until we were quite breathless, and disembarked at the war room. Garran Vimes was in there. He was a husky dark-skinned man, with silver hair that hung loose over his shoulders, and a large bristling moustache, which had the last remaining remnants of colour in it, giving it a peppery appearance. He gave an authoritative air and, despite the heat, was dressed in his full military regalia. I had never seen him wear anything else. The tabard he wore over his armour proudly showed off the Theramore anchor in bright grey. He was stationed at a table with a fiery lantern on it that made the shadows dance across the table and on the walls. His eyes were transfixed on the many papers and parchments piling up on the desk. On the other side of the table, an uneasy troupe of trained recruits stood to attention, unsure of what to do whilst Vimes' attention was upon the paperwork. Most of them had started training several years back, when I had started work on the western rampart, after years of neglect had allowed the entire façade to collapse. Fortunately the garrison was empty and no-one was hurt, but the boom was heard across the entire town. Part of their training was to lift the heavy stones up the scaffolding to where I was stationed. I would then chip and smooth the stones, ready for cementing them in place. I could not remember any of their names though.

Over in the corner, several worn suits of Imperial Plate armour were piled high. They had seen much, by the look of them; the once brilliant white metal had faded to a miserable cloudy grey, and the chest-plates and greaves were severely dented, although to show how sturdy the workmanship was on it, not a single piece had been penetrated in their long history. Most pieces had faint burgundy stains in places. Captain Vimes looked up from his paper. The recruits shot back to attention. He peered over towards us.

"You two" he called, beckoning. "Here." We walked over, unsure whether to march. He motioned towards the recruits. "Privates, here are our navigators. They will escort you to the rendezvous point. You are to look after them, as they are not trained in battle, and you are by no means allowed them to enter any dangerous zone as discussed. Any questions?"

The recruits stood still. "Very well." He turned to us. "Now, as the rest of you know, we are to attack in broad daylight, from the beach. The Rose will escort you to the landing area, where you will disembark on a dinghy. Come first light, you will scout for the leader of the camp, and surround whatever creature you deem to consider most important. Judging by our knowledge of the Murloc race, they will be submissive if any superior hierarch is placed in danger. You will take said leader captive. No blood is to be shed. There was an event in Westfall where the villagers wiped out a Murloc camp, and within a month, the camp was replaced with even more hostile creatures that now dominate the eastern shoreline of the area. We cannot allow that to happen here, so at all costs, avoid a massacre! Once captured, you are to observe the Murloc behaviour. If they back down, which is hopefully what they will do, then you are to retreat back to your entry point and release the head Murloc. This will be to show them that we are quite serious when it comes to our territorial bounds. Any questions?"

One recruit piped up. "Why will we do this in the light? Surely it would be easier to surround the camp in the dead of night?"

"Private Elkor. These creatures have a greater sight than we. They are chiefly nocturnal and henceforth have adapted a night-vision that we do not possess. The reports indicate that a Murloc's sight is worst when the sun rises, as it takes a certain amount of time afore they can adjust to the changing light. That is why you will attack at first light."

He shot his eyes at me. "Young stonemason, where is their camp located?" The room felt awkwardly silent. I wasn't sure how to answer.

"I do not know, sir." I said truthfully. "The creature that attacked me had travelled miles further down the sands from its camp. The Night-Elf Band knows the exact location of the Murloc tribe."

"Band?" The general blurted out. "Band is yet to return to duty! We have considered him absent without due leave, or dead." His moustache twitched as he spoke. I was unsure if he was angry, upset or annoyed by this news. I felt a painful rush surge from my heart to my spine and legs as I heard the news. How could Band be dead? He was such a skilled warrior, from what I saw. He could take on ten Murlocs and still get the better of them. Michael interjected and spoke, with his hand raised.

"Sir, perhaps I can be of assistance?" Captain Vimes studied Michael's demeanour, and waved his arm motioning him to continue. "The Murloc race are not long-distance travellers. They have neither the stamina nor inclination to travel further than their own resources require. The creature that was killed was, I believe, a Coastrunner of the Mirefin tribe and thus adapted for short sprint-running only. Therefore I suggest the camp must be no more than half a day's hike from the spot where he attacked."

Vimes listened intently and nodded in agreement to Michael's theory. He rummaged through the papers on the desk and pulled out a beautifully illustrated map of Theramore Isle and its surrounding area. The map was carefully drawn by an obviously skilled cartographer, who had focused on the trade routes between Witch Hill and Theramore. I was dazzled by the intricate designs and finely-detailed legends that littered the map. The beaches where I spent my days fishing were less detailed, near un-charted, although the coastline itself was completely accurate. I noticed other areas on the map, places I never dared venture, like the Backbay Wetlands; a marshy desolate place that no fool should ever travel through unless they had a damned good reason. The beaches were to the north of our island, and made up the majority of the eastern shoreline of the greater area of Dustwallow. The surrounding hills and marshes were mainly uninhabitable and I knew of nobody in the town who had ever travelled away from the well-worn path between Theramore and its various outposts.

Vimes spoke to me. "Where was the location you were attacked?" I studied the coastline and worked my way up it, recognising the steep inclining cove where the upturned boat lay, and consequently a large pile of turtles' shells.

I pointed to it "Here, sir."

Vimes inserted a pin into the map where I was pointing. He reached inside a large pouch attached to his gem-studded belt, and removed a fantastic gadget. It was in the shape of a wheel, similar to the wheels at the water-mill, and it bore strange symbols that were clearly a language I had never read, or heard spoken. The wheel contained small dials, like a pocket-watch, which were tiny and needed very careful hands to move them. The captain reached to the central dial and turned it between his thumb and forefinger. The symbols that littered the wheel glided around it at various loci, some shifting at a faster pace than others. The elegant design had the entire room enthralled. The general called over to the other side of the war-room. "Chaldos!"

From the corner, an old man, Chaldos, emerged. I had not even noticed his presence. He was hidden behind a tower of old books and parchments, files and papers. "Yes sir?" he replied, tilting his head round a teetering pile of atlases.

"To what scale is the Witch Hill trade route map, number twelve?"

"Number twelve, sir? That would be at a scale of fourteen miles per hand sir. Fourteen."

"Fourteen, very well, thank you." Vimes answered and carried on turning the dial. It clicked and whirred with each revolution, as if the marvellous device had a little engine inside it. Judging by the wry smile curling up at the edge of his lip, he clearly enjoyed using the device, as would I if I owned one. He set the wheel upon the map, aligned to the pin, and rolled the wheel up the shoreline. It clicked and clacked as it moved, and recorded a distance with its strange symbols. Once the captain was content the machine had clicked and whirred the right number of times, he withdrew a scrap sheet of parchment and a quill, and set them down on the table. He started scrawling out a strange mathematical equation, using symbols similar to the markings on the measuring device (if that's what it actually was), combined with regular numbers and symbols that I was acquainted with. Two recruits were whispering behind me. One of them said something about it being of gnomish design, from a city called "Gnomeregan". I had never heard of such a city, and was sure that it must be somewhere in the unknown continent of the Eastern Kingdoms. Our geography lessons at school never extended to further than Dustwallow, or perhaps the Barrens beyond, but that was just a wasteland in my minds' eye.

Vimes finished his equation and switched a tiny lever on the device. He clicked it four more times northwards and the elegant wheel settled neatly on the shoreline between a collection of unknown, tiny volcanic islands, miles north of the furthest I had travelled along the beaches. The islands were insignificant given the large scale of the map. Chaldos had joined the throng now. He brought with him a crudely-drawn map with no place names or lovingly-rendered illustrations and Vimes marked the exact point where the wheel had stopped on that. He handed the sheet to the largest, and eldest recruit.

"Aviad, let the dockworkers know that this is your location and how close they will be to passing it." He said. Aviad took the paper and nodded. Captain Garran Vimes turned to the recruits, Michael and I. "You are dismissed. Good luck."

The recruits had stayed behind to fit into their armour. Michael lead me out of the room, telling me I was needed in the gunnery, on the other side of the garrison. We headed over there and found it deserted. The gunnery was a dark, unsual place. Armaments lined the walls and thousands of arrows lay bundled in wicker caskets, dumped haphazardly wherever there was room. Huge kegs of dark grey powder lay open in the corner by where we were standing. They left an acidic, musty smell that burned the back of my throat when I breathed in heavily. I coughed and spluttered. Michael laughed.

"Why are we here?" I asked

"Old Branchard wanted to see you. He passed me outside the garrison as I was waiting for you."

"Branchard?" I asked. "What would he want?"

Branchard wsa the armaments master of Theramore. He was a very kind man, who had trained with my father, when I was a baby. He received an injury from somewhere on his back prevented him from going to war, so he had spent the last fourteen seasons taking up administerial posts in the garrison. When I was working as a stonemason, he would occasionally bring up warm green tea for me from the scullery. We chatted now and then, but only ever small talk. He never talked about my father. I grew under the impression that he was bitter about having to stay behind as all his friends went to war.

The acrid smell was burning my throat something rotten so I moved as far from the powder-kegs as I could. The burning sensation lessened, and the smell was replaced with one of aging metal and oily wood. Michael was idly playing with an arrow he had picked up. It was rusted slightly but still deadly sharp.

After several minutes waiting, Branchard showed up. He was delighted to see us and chatted idle gossip about the various goings-on in Theramore; who was promoted, who was demoted, which lucky landlord has had a new baby girl—that sort of thing. On any other day, I would have been interested in all he had to say, but a combination of nervousness, urgency and the fiery gunpowder smell was making me irritable. I politely interjected and asked him what he wanted us here for.

"Oh, right, right." He said. "The reason I summoned you is this." He ambled over to a chest, hidden under a basket of arrows. He pulled out the chest, which scraped noisily across the wooden floor. From his pocket he retrieved a heavy iron circle of many keys, all similar sizes. He instantly picked out the correct one and unlocked the iron-bound chest. Inside was a collection of various armour; a helmet with vibrant plumage; a thick, dark, iron chestplate emblazoned with the Theramore military insignia; and a dirty brown cloak. Underneath these objects lay several shiny gold rings and trinkets, glinting like treasure. He picked up an emerald-studded gold ring and held it to the light. The light refracted through the green gems and coloured the walls in polygonal green shapes. We were transfixed upon it.

"Your father wanted me to give you something when the time came." He said, still holding the ring. My heart lifted a little. I went to examine the ring closer, but he dropped it back into the chest, where it jangled richly amongst the other beautiful rings and trinkets. Instead he pulled out the dirty brown cloak, which looked more like a used, muddy sack with a buckle attached. The thing was leather, and looked out of place amongst the shiny metal objects it was with. He handed me the cloak. I stared at it, unsure of whether he wanted me to own such a vile thing, or if I would be so kind to throw it away. I reluctantly took it.

"My father wanted me to have this?" I asked, a little hurt, considering the rich gems I had just been exposed to.

"Yes. It belonged to him." Branchard said. "Saved his life on many occasions, as well. He outgrew it though; needed something a little lighter and less burdensome. It is perfect for a beginning disappearing artist."

I examined the leather cloak. The buckle allowed it to be attached over the shoulders and across the chest. It was quite bulky, as if it were intended to be worn over thick armour. The dirt on it was not dirt, but the actual design. I bundled up the thing, and noticed that it looked more like a rock than a rolled-up cloak. "I am not a disappearing artist, though." I said. "Why would I need such a thing?"

"I suppose you think you are quite different from your father." Branchard said. "Yet you clearly have a roguish spirit about you. I saw it in you as you were growing up. I think your father was expecting you to follow in his footsteps, but he still felt proud of you once you decided to take up the noble art of stonemasonry, rather than the tricks and illusions of a rogue."

"Why are you giving this to me now?" I asked, a little confused. Michael also had a look of befuddlement on his brow, and had continued toying with the arrow.

"Because" Branchard said, "I heard about this mission Vimes is sending you on. Murlocs are dangerous creatures, they are." He paused briefly, and looked mournfully out the dusty window. "As such, I feel you should take the highest precautions. Your father asked me to only give this to you if the council enforced conscription. He didn't want you sent to war, but if it were made law and you had no choice, then I was to give you this."

"I'm not even sure how this will help me" I said, still scrutinising the cloak

"Like I said, it will help you vanish."

"But how?" I asked. I remembered back to my childhood, when I would sneak up on my sisters as they play in the fields and scare them. They never saw me coming. Then again, they were only small children then, with slow wits.

"I am not a rogue, nor conjurer or summoner. I know nothing of the strange magic of the world." Branchard said. "Perhaps you could one day tell me."

A recruit burst in. "There you are!" he exclaimed, motioning towards Michael and I. "We are ready to depart and you have yet to get your armour on." He unsheathed a sword and a dagger. He held out the sword to Michael, and the dagger to me. "Vimes thinks it would be safer if you two could hold your own, rather than rely on us." He looked at me. "He also said you would be more dextrous with a dagger." This was true, I thought as I took it. How did Vimes know? The dagger felt lighter than a handful of sand. It glided through the air with such an ease, I felt an immense sense of power and control as I held it. I wove the dagger through the air with an elegant grace, and a high speed. Thomas was getting to grips with his sword, which looked a little unwieldy. He stopped and observed me manoeuvring the dagger with such ease, and was a little taken aback.

"The boy is a natural" Branchard said, and clapped me on the back.

Out on the dock, a huge ship was moored several hundred yards out to sea. Decendra the dock-master was talking with a group of workers; stout men and sun-blistered dwarves, who were loading up dinghies with large crates. The hefty wooden crates had a "Steamwheedle Cartel" logo branded upon them. The crate that was being lowered onto a dinghy tipped over and spilled its contents into the water; large mechanical frames, modulators, copper bars, large bore drill-bits and vicious-looking circular saw teeth all splashed into the depths below, along with the empty crate. The men immediately started shouting and a thunderous argument broke out. Over on the west pier, the rest of the soldiers were fully kitted out in their Imperial Plate armour. The intense heat made everyone uncomfortable and there was a lot of fidgeting and angst building up. Michael and I joined them. We had been kitted out with lighter, but equally hot, attire; thick, broad leather chest pieces, and raw-hide leggings. The outfit allowed us to be more flexible, but I was sweating profusely inside the garments. The private that handed us our weapons welcomed us.

"We are taking the Steamwheedle ship north to our starting point, before it heads east overseas. It is not leaving for several hours yet, so we are stranded here out on the dock until then. We should reach our position by nightfall, so I am presuming we will be left in the dinghy overnight until first light. Or we could make camp on the beach."

Some of the soldiers muttered a little at that. It was clear nobody wanted to be within range of the Murlocs. I only hoped they didn't enjoy paddling too far out in the water.

The argument was boiling over on the other side of the pier and looked like it was becoming out of hand. Some fists were bared. The soldier called Aviad headed over to the centre of the maelstrom. He was a large man, nearly as tall as Band, and a little broader. He calmly asserted himself amongst the fighting men and dwarves. He held the most violent one back as he tried to lunge and spoke quietly to the other members of the fracas. They began to back down and the volatility rapidly dissolved. Eventually, the workers resumed their positions and it was as if no argument had taken place at all. The dwarf Aviad had held back had calmed too, and shook Aviad's hand. I was impressed by his remarkable ability to defuse an angry situation. The soldier who had just spoken said to us. "That is Aviad Siegne. He can calm even the wildest crag boar with a few choice words. Born leader and diplomat he is; not too good with a sword, however." He held out his hand. "And I am Willen, son of Costan, one of the few farmers left in Theramore."

"Pleasure to meet you, Willen" Michael said, "And may the light be with you." Aviad had returned now, and motioned us to the dinghy.

The dinghy was cramped and uncomfortable. I dreaded spending the night in it, but I realised that the cargo taking up most of the room would be unloaded onto the ship. Once alongside the giant vessel (The "Menethil Rose" was emblazoned with giant golden letters along her bow), several huge knotted ropes dropped beside us. The crew attached them to the sides of the dinghy and it was hoisted up, out of the water, and onto the deck of the Menethil Rose.

For the remainder of the journey we sat upon the deck. The soldiers realised there was no point being incarcerated in the heavy plate armour so most of them had discarded it to the cabins below, and we sunned ourselves as we waited. The workers unloading cargo would grumble as they passed. The ship, I learned, was a passenger and cargo ship, and was headed for a town called Menethil, in the Eastern Kingdoms on the other side of the world. It would take half a season to reach its destination, so the other passengers were here for a long haul. A ship this size left the harbour every single evening, and on a clear day you could see a line of ships on the horizon, all heading to the Eastern Kingdoms.

"You could" said one worker, who was slacking with us, "swim to the other side of the world and not get lost, as there will always be a ship in sight, like a string of beads."

Michael was staring off the edge at the landless east. I was more interested in the many, many crates that were piling up on the deck. I asked the slacker about it.

"The Steamwheedle Cartel" he told me "has a monopoly on nearly all overseas trade routes. Whether you are shipping a thimble or a goblin rocket-carriage, the majority of the cost goes straight to the Cartel, which operates chiefly in a haven called Booty Bay. They're totally neutral, so are untouched by this war. I guess this explains why they have been so lucrative: Both sides use the cartel to send goods." He saw his superior heading over and began to tie a knot around an already-secure crate. The superior was content that he was still working. "There was this one time, many years ago, when a band of Horde-sympathiser pirates attacked a convoy of cartel goods, and pillaged the lot. I tell you, those were dangerous times. The cartel enforced a ban on all Horde goods and the whole economy damned-near collapsed! Since then, the cartel's been pretty-much untouchable, save for the Defias and barbary pirates."

I pondered this a while. I felt like asking more questions about the war to this worker, seeing as he clearly knew more than I. I wanted to know more about these Horde people, and if it were them that my father was fighting. However, it was apparent the worker was slacking still so he made himself busy and disappeared below deck. Michael came up to me, brandishing a book he'd found.

"I was just looking at a history of Steamwheedle Port. They call this the Silk Sea Trail. On account of the fact silk was the predominant trade good back then. Now it's fallen out of favour, thanks to advances in tailoring runecloth and mooncloth; there's a craze for that stuff, and it's very hard to come by too."

I stared out to the setting sun. "You are a goldmine of information." I said.

He tapped the book and smiled. "It's all in here."

The evening had cooled and the sea-breeze started sending chills, so we retired below to the cabins. The armour that had been hastily removed was now all back in place, and the privates began to show their nerves a little. I sat on a bunk. The ship jolted mightily as the anchor was raised and the current took its powerful hold. The sails braced hard against the mast and the ship turned lazily northwards. The heavy timbers groaned and trembled under the mighty force of the sea. A dwarf popped his head through the porthole in the door.

"Arr!" He cried. "I'll call you landlubbers afore we reach the Dreadmurk shore! It'll be night by then, so get yer lamps alight." The ship groaned again and creaked. "Ahar, shiver me timbers—you people are in fer a treat!"


	8. A New Role For a Fisherman

Chapter viii

The setting sun had been obscured by a sudden rolling mist, and the visibility through the porthole was no further than the end of my nose. I sat on a worn and musty cabin bed, and closely examined my father's cloak. The only light in the cabin shone from a flickering lantern, and as I held it up to the flame I had noticed that the dirt pattern was gone. The colour had also changed. Instead of the dark, filthy brown pathetic thing that Branchard took from the chest, the cloak was now a smooth golden brown, the exact shade of the ship's timbers in the warm light. The leather had a gentle sheen to it, but it did not reflect the lamplight—if anything it appeared to absorb it. I held the cloak closer to the lamp on the desk, and the leather subtly changed its hue to the darker oak of the worn desk. I lay it flat out on the bed, which had fading red sheets. I waited for the colour to change, but it didn't. The door behind me squeaked warily, and Michael entered the cabin. I turned towards him. He had a flagon of mead in both hands, and held one out to me. I took it, and we cheered each other's health.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

I turned to the cloak, but didn't see it.

"I was—" I reached out to the bed. The cloak had disappeared. I looked around. It was nowhere to be seen. My hand scrabbled over the sheet, and to my surprise, the cloak was there where I had left it, only now it was it was the same colour and texture as the itchy red sheets. As I yanked it off the sheets, it looked its perfectly normal timber-brown smoothness. From Michael's eyes, it would surely have appeared that I had produced a cloak from nowhere. I faced him, and a look of amazement was apparent in his stare, as he stood with dropped jaw. He shifted his gaze from me, to the cloak that had suddenly appeared, to his flagon of mead. He frowned at the jug then put it down.

"Don't worry," I told him. "Your vision is perfectly clear. This cloak seems to blend in with the background." I threw the cloak back on the bed and we both stared at it. It lay there, doing nothing. After a few moments of gawping at a bundle of leather, I felt a little silly.

"I don't see anything" he said, a little disappointed.

I squinted and rubbed my eyes. When I opened them, it had disappeared again. Michael looked away. When he looked back, his face looked stunned, and he darted his eyes around. The cloak had once again vanished from both our visions. I reached over, and felt it where I had left it. When I dragged it off the sheets, it came back into focus so swiftly, it left us both looking amazed.

Michael laughed and grabbed his flagon. "Quite a present you have there!" He cried and we clinked flagons heartily, spilling frothy beer over the floor.

We went out onto the long corridor, which was empty. The entire crew and passengers were below the bilge line, partying their first night on board away as if they were drinking to sleep through the entire season's travel. Most of the soldiers had succumbed to the festive atmosphere and joined in with the revellers down below for an evening of dancing, singing and drinking. The corridor was lit by hanging lamps, and was fairly incandescent. I stood in the centre of the passageway, and Michael faced me. I threw the cloak over me, standing still.

"I can still see you," he said. "Here, give me a try." He took the cloak and wrapped it around himself. All I saw was Michael wrapped in a large leather cloak that looked a little like the walls of the hallway.

"You haven't really disappeared," I told him. "You actually seem to stand out even more."

"This cloak can't make people disappear." He said sombrely, removing it and handing it back to me.

"I am not so sure" I said. "Perhaps it needs more of a deft hand to use." I held the cloak in both my hands. "Are you ready?"

Michael nodded. The ship's bell tolled the hour. On the third stroke of the bell I took a deep breath and flung the cloak over me with a great gusto. Instead of standing still, however I feinted off to the left of the passageway, where the contrast between the lamplight and the shadow was strongest. As I feinted, I weaved the cloak over me and leant with my back against the wall, not daring to breathe. I looked over at Michael. His eyes were transfixed on the spot where I had been standing. He had not seen me fall off to the left, and was expecting me to be standing still, as I had been on the previous attempt to disappear.

"Wow, it really works!" Michael said, talking to the empty space where I had been. "I can't see you at all!" I was still hugging the wall, and I glided past him silently. He was still looking forward, expecting me to uncloak myself. I had other plans. He had begun to get suspicious, and tentatively moved forward, and felt the air in front of him with his hands. I was standing directly behind him now, allowing a smile to spread across my lips. Michael's expression changed. He began swiping wildly in the corridor, trying to guess where I was standing. His arms were flailing wildly.

"Where are you?" He called, swinging his arms and grabbing vainly at the walls. I moved my head close to his ear.

"Behind you," I whispered. He yipped in surprise and drew a gasping breath as he whipped around, nearly tripping over his own feet.

"You—sneaky little—rogue!" He called and grabbed at my neck, dislodging the cloak. I whirled the cumbersome leather mantle off of me and gave Michael a bow as I appeared, almost magically, in front of him. His face was one of awe, and he was deeply impressed. He motioned to speak further, but was dumbfounded by my disappearing act. His stutterings were interrupted by a clapping noise behind me. We both turned around. Aviad was standing at the end of the corridor, giving me a generous applause. How long had he been there? What had he seen?

"That was a very clever motion you did there, young stonemason," he said, once he had finished clapping. "Tell me, who taught you to disappear so completely?"

My eyes dropped to the floor. "I was never taught such an action" I said, truthfully. "It is this cloak. It can make one disappear." I handed Aviad the wonderful leather cape. Aviad studied it with a keen eye.

"Disappear?" He said. "No. No object can make one simply _disappear_. Perhaps the quality of this material will make your appearance _less apparent_ to an eye not focused. When I was a young apprentice I was taught by the elf kind. They taught me to strengthen my sight, until I could see a bird blink in the sky, or the insignia of a ships' sail when it is a mere dot on the horizon. Yet when I saw you pull your trick, you vanished from my sight so completely that I, for the first time in many years, layed mistrust upon my own eyes."

I blushed. Aviad had a grandiose air about him, and spoke quietly and calmly, so that his voice subtly hid an immense power. I could now see, by his choice of words and manner of speaking, the calming influence his voice commanded. He reminded me a little of Band—perhaps the elf-like lilt in his way of speaking.

"Please," he said, "show me again."

I stood where I had before, in front of both of them, and held out the cloak again. After a count of three I threw the cloak over me with a flourish, and feinted to the right this time. Once I was pressed up against the wall I stole a look at the two men. And, to my delight, both men were staring where I had just been standing. They reacted quicker this time, however, and began to feel blindly in front of them, trying to catch me out. I had been very quick, however, and tiptoed along the wall so I was behind them before they had even reacted. Aviad laughed and I pulled off my cloak. Michael's stunned look of awe was still inscribed on his face from when I first disappeared. He was able to speak now, however.

"I still—I still do not understand how you can vanish in front of our faces."

Aviad agreed. "You have fooled my eyes for the second time, young mason. Perhaps the art of hammering away at stone is a talent less suited for someone with a gift that you clearly have demonstrated to us."

I was trying to hide the smile that was beaming on my face. "Actually, I am a fisherman now."

Aviad laughed even harder. "A fisherman? Well, fishmonger, perhaps we have a more vital role for you than simple navigator. After all, the map we have deems your appointed role redundant."

I was a little worried by what Aviad was implying. "What do you mean?"

I heard a dull thump come from far below us. The Menethil Rose yawned and groaned. It ground to a halt and we suddenly lurched forward.

"Ah, the anchor has dropped" Aviad said. "We are at our destination."

The soldiers who had been partying below came up the stairs. Aviad turned to them. They stood to attention.

"Privates," he said with his authoritative yet gentle voice. "It appears we have a night wind in our midst." He put his arm over my shoulder. "Our young navigator here has just volunteered to be a resident burglar. Now get up on deck; we have a very long night in a very small boat." The privates saluted and ran up on deck, followed by Aviad and Michael, leaving me to ponder what exactly Aviad meant by "burglar".


	9. Locked Trunks & Alchemy

_Chapter ix_

The small dinghy rocked gently on the calm water. Our collective weight had risen the waterline so that occasionally a small wave would splash over the edge, soaking the back or elbows of one of the soldiers, who would then curse under their breath. Each time this happened, we all become aware of how close to discomfort we were and shifted towards the centre a little. I was damp from the rolling mists. Our vision was hardly further than a few feet. Everyone was shivering, even the large warriors. I gave silent thanks that I did not have to wear the heavy mail armour of my counterparts, as the damp freezing metal against my skin would be too much for me. My leather carapace and my father's cloak was keeping me slightly more comfortable than the others.

We sat in silence. Occasionally a small plopping sound could be heard as fish broke the surface of the water; probably to eat the wonderful culinary delight of small insects that were floating around.

Something crunched against the boat, right behind where I was sitting. Everyone jolted and leant over to see what had struck us. It was a barrel, which formed part of a larger collection of flotsam that was bobbing merrily in the misty water. We didn't need an order to tell us to lug it onto the dinghy; everybody knew what would be inside and we clamoured as we heaved the soaking barrel over the edge. By the state of the wood, it looked like it had been floating in the water since before I was born. The metal rings that secured it were rusty and the wood was spongy and covered in barnacles and whelks. I noticed an engraving on the side. "Whisky Slims" it said, with a more faded inscription below. I couldn't read what the name of the drink was, but I could tell the last word was rum.

"Well I never, Rumsey Rum!" one soldier called, and we popped off the lid, which broke in two with the force. The strong smell of volatile spirits attacked our nostrils. "This must have floated from the other side of the world to get here! Old Whisky Slim doesn't export his drink to Kalimdor. I only got a taste of it when I was a dockworker, working in Booty Bay."

No-one was listening to him, as everyone was too busy looking for a vessel. I was sitting on a tackle box, and slyly opened it. There was a large mug in there, full of wriggling maggots which were fattened and ready for use as bait. I emptied the maggots into another container and washed out the mug over the edge. I took the cleaned mug and sloshed it in the barrel of rum.

"Keep the lantern away from this, it smells potent." I said. Aviad swiped up the lantern and hung it on the aft beam of the dinghy, where it swung and threw shadows across the boat. I held the mug up to the light, and the liquid looked jet-black.

"Down the hatch!" Michael called. I cheered the soldiers and took a deep swig. The liquid was bitter and cool and flew down my throat like a glass of water. Once it had reached my chest, the burning sensation began. My lungs contracted and my throat surged with a pain and I let out a great whooping bark as the explosive drink laid waste to my windpipe. "Hoh!" I cried, wheezing. "That's the stuff!" As the burning ebbed a wonderful flowing of warmth bloomed out from my stomach. The cold wetness of the dinghy was forgotten. I passed the mug around and the soldiers took swigs in turn, all screwing up their faces and wheezing satisfied aah's with each mouthful. Aviad passed, and once the mug had been passed round once, he took it and told us we shouldn't drink anymore, as it will impede the mission. I put the mug back in the tackle box, and saw pieces of a rod and line. I had an idea. I affixed the wooden poles together to form a fishing rod and weaved the fishing line through the hoops on it. It made quite a fine fishing rod. When all this mess was over and dealt with I could take it home and use it for myself. "If all this mess is over" I thought to myself and suddenly remembered why I was here. The nervous butterflies erupted once more in my stomach, and no amount of Rumsey Rum would quell them.

With little else to do, everyone was watching my movements. Little was said, and I was the centre of attention. I took the rod and cast the line out towards the rest of the flotsam. It caught on something straight away and I started to reel it in. It was only a worm-eaten plank of wood so I cast it aside and tried again. The line caught on something heavier. It was a trunk with a large lock on the front. I reeled it in and we heaved it over the edge. I left the soldiers to try and open it whilst I tried reaching for the rest of the floating junk. Everything else I reeled in had been spoiled thanks to its years floating in saltwater. Then my line caught on the netting that had kept these abandoned items together for however long they had been floating. The net snapped and the remaining pieces floated apart and silently drifted into the mists where they would float on for ever more.

I turned my attention back to the battered trunk. The lock on it was massive and heavy, and some of the soldiers had been trying to remove it by force. When that proved unsuccessful, a young soldier who had told me his name was Wyahen reached into his satchel and removed a collection of stick-like implements, all held on a metal ring. It looked like a key-ring, only the keys did not have teeth, just strange needle-like grooves and odd sprockets attached.

"What are those?" Aviad said

"Thieves' tools!" Wyahen replied. "With the right skill, these can unlock any lock in the world."

"Do you have the right skill?" Another soldier asked

"No." Wyahen replied. "I have never used them, and no-one has ever taught me how."

He took the heavy lock in one hand and, clearly not knowing which 'key' did what, began shoving them in the keyhole and twiddling them about. I was about to tell him that he should try the tool with the wider shaft when all the soldiers began butting in with their efforts.

"Give it here!" one soldier said. "This is how you do it!" He again tried unsuccessfully, and was far more forceful than Wyahen. I was worried he would snap the thieves' tools, as they appeared to be designed for delicacy, rather than brute force. Another soldier grabbed them off him, and began his own method. Each soldier thought they could unlock the trunk and tried something differently, but after diligent efforts, they all failed and sat back to contemplate the next man's endeavours. When each soldier had given it their best shot, they turned to me.

"You're the burglar" one man said. "You should be able to unlock it."

"Wasn't your old man a rogue?" another, whose name I had forgotten, called out.

I sighed, and Aviad handed me the thieves' tools. The soldiers all had hopeful looks in their eyes. Not hopeful—but expecting looks. I felt highly pressurised, as if I would bring the greatest disappointment if I could not open it. I moved over to the chest. It was so battered and worn. I doubt anybody had checked if there was anything in it. The lock had a yawning black keyhole. I examined the thieves' tools. They all looked so unusual. I selected one that looked about the correct width of the keyhole, and gently slotted it in. As it was sliding in, I felt the tiniest resistance and stopped. I wiggled the key-like metal object very slightly to find the exact area of resistance. As soon as I felt the key rest on it, I twisted hard.

The lock popped off and fell onto the floor of the boat with a dull thunk.

It had taken me less than a few seconds. Some of the soldiers' mouths were open in disbelief: they had all been trying for a long time and failing at every attempt, and I succeed on my first try.

"The boy is a natural" Aviad said, and clapped me on the back. I touched the lid of the chest and it sprung open angrily, like a cornered animal. The force of the spring made it leap in the air and clatter down onto the boat. Aviad examined the contents. He pulled out a small money bag and peered inside.

"one, two, three, four-twenty, five fifty-seven…" he said counting the money inside. "I make it that we each receive forty-seven copper from this bountiful loot here."

"It is alright Aviad" Michael said. "I am sure it is not worth the effort counting out forty-seven coppers to each and every individual here."

"You are right" Aviad said, and tossed the bag at me. "Our rogue deserves it." No-one argued and I happily accepted the bag. Inside were five pieces of silver and other coins totalling sixty-four copper.

Aviad went about removing the rest of the bounty. He pulled out a filthy bolt of linen cloth. "Fine for a wedding dress, if the material were a little less stained" he said. "Oh, and what is this?" He reached in and took out a bundle of thorny dark-green nettles.

"Careful Aviad, some of those nettles could be poisonous" Michael said.

"Not these" Aviad replied, inspecting the nettles. "Fadeleaf" he concluded. He turned to me. "Rogue, watch closely." I did as he said.

He took out a small pestle and mortar and a knife from his own pack. He held the mortar between his knees and placed a stem of fadeleaf over it. Using the knife he stripped the stem of its thorns and leaves, which were then placed in the mortar. Aviad ground them up into a fine powder and took a conical vial from his satchel. He poured the contents into the vial and shook it up. Then he reached in and took out what looked like a tiny stone and carefully placed it in the vial and corked it. He handed it to me. "Be careful to close your eyes when you use this."

I was confused, to say the least.

"If ever you are in trouble, simply throw this as hard as you can onto the ground. There is a tiny speck of gunpowder in it so it will make a bang. Just remember to keep your eyes _closed_."

I took the vial and carefully slid it into one pocket. I felt a little uneasy carrying a small explosive around with me. What if it went off? It could hurt my leg or worse, attract attention from close by.

"You are something of an alchemist" Wyahen said. "Perhaps you can teach me some new things someday." He glanced over at me. "And our friend rogue here." Aviad smiled.

The sun must have arisen at this point, because it was light enough to not need the lantern anymore. Aviad opened the small window in it and blew out the flame. The mists were slowly clearing. He opened the rum once more, retrieved the mug ("Looks like my Mug o' Hurt" one soldier had said to Michael, who agreed. I had no idea what they were talking about.) He opened the keg of rum, dipped it in and thrust it at me. I took it and imbibed, once more feeling the burn, which was more welcome this time as it was now expected. I handed the mug back to Aviad.

He took it, then reached out and shoved me in the chest with all his might. The force knocked me over the edge into the freezing water. I stifled a shocked scream as the water bit at every inch of me. I was thankful for the burning rum sensation as this was the only thing that stopped me from locking my entire body and sinking into the depths.

"Thank you, Aviad" I said, with much sarcasm. I began to tread water.

"If you have a bandage, do you peel it off bit by bit, or rip it straight off?" He asked, in a philosophical voice. "Now go. Their sight is at its worst."

I turned around and swam silently towards the small collection of islands. I was heading deep into Murloc territory.


	10. A Creeping Rescue

_Chapter x_

Even though the mists were clearing, I had to constantly check my compass to make sure I wasn't swimming off on a tangent without realising it. The grouping of islands was visible through the murk now. Three giants rising out of the water, as if they had only just awoken.

As I came closer I noticed there were buildings on these seemingly deserted islands. Small, crude wooden huts assembled in small clusters around the coastline. I headed towards one cluster. The sun was bursting through the mist now, and the light—dull though it was—made my eyes squint with sensitivity.

There seemed little movement near these huts. I stopped and squinted. I could see small shiny bodies reflecting the morning sun. The Murlocs were there. I wrapped my cloak around me. I hope it worked in water. I hope it made me as invisible to Murloc eyes as it did to humans. I hoped for too many things.

What if they relied on their sense of _smell_?

I sniffed the air. It reeked of fish that had been left out in the hot sun. I nearly gagged. I was within a stone's throw of these creatures and if they smelt this bad at this distance, I could not imagine the reek when I was in their camp.

I was in the shallows now, and could stand up. I waded silently towards them. I stopped to observe their movements. One stood sentry to the larger of the huts. It held a spear, much taller than itself, vertically. It was inky blue in colour, and had vacant alice-blue eyes. It had two rails of spiky fins from the back of its head down its spine, and a row of jagged brilliant white teeth. It must have been quite young, judging by the teeth, as the one that Band had slain had terrible yellowed and chipped teeth. The hut itself had only two supporting walls so I could see right inside it. There were two Murlocs in there, communicating. Both were crouched down, and their arms were thrust forward, with their strange webbed hands cupped, as if holding a small ball. They were different to the sentry, in that they were a highly reflective beige colour, with the larger scales on their sides a deep mouldy green. The fins on their back were a fiery orange, as if it were nature's way of suggesting one should avoid these at any cost—they are highly dangerous. One gave the impression it was chanting, even though the only sound I heard was a faint gargling, similar to the noises that the rogue Murloc on the beach that day made. The Murlocs were clearly able to distinguish their own language however, as the sentry suddenly gargled loudly, and a smaller Murloc came padding down the shoreline from the nearest 'village' of huts. I recognised that Murloc as a Coastrunner, from Michael's wonderfully esoteric encyclopædia. The sentry grizzled at it, and it cowered a little, before making a gargling sound of understanding, and sprinted back on its stringy legs. The sentry even gargled what sounded to be a sigh. Murloc arms and legs were generally very thin and wiry, but the sentry appeared to have quite bulging muscles on its upper arm and forearm. I felt a shudder of fear when I thought how strong it could skewer me with that long spear he was toying with. My attention turned back to the two beige ones in the hut. They were both chanting now, and one was keeping a rhythm by stamping its foot. Their glassy eyes became fiery and something happened that made me even more fearful.

Their cupped hands appeared to summon what I can only describe as a ball of electricity that floated between them. It hung and blazed a power of immense fury. Tiny arms of lightning occasionally shot out of the ball and contacted the ground, the roof, the wall, even the hands of the Murlocs. I could hardly believe my eyes…they were summoning electricity from _nothing_?

I gripped my cloak tighter and headed towards the camp. I was easily within sight of the Murlocs now, and they had not noticed me. The sentry was even staring right at me, but its dead eyes stared past me and I was assured it could not see me. I was right in front of it now. It began to hum tunelessly with its phlegmatic voice. The strange beige Murlocs in the hut growled and it stopped and stared at the ground, drawing into the sand with the butt of its spear. I walked past it. The smell was bringing tears to my eyes. I held my breath. Wherever I had landed, it was clear that the tribal leader of the Murlocs was not here. I had a long search ahead of me. Small villages of huts dotted the coastlines as far as the eye could see. There must be hundreds if not thousands of Murlocs on this island alone, and there were at least two more to search should this landmass prove unfruitful. Scanning the coast, I concluded there was not a village as large as this one, so it must either be on the other side of the island, or somewhere in the middle. I headed towards a hill that rose out from the palm trees. From up there I could get a better look.

The centre of the island was dotted with Murlocs; either alone or in pairs. Some were foraging for food. All seemed off their guard. I wandered confidently past one which was aimlessly stabbing at the bark of a tree with a shiny dirk. I had to be very careful clearing the wooded areas in case a broken twig or rustling of shrubbery would alert them to my attention.

The mists had completely cleared by the time I had reached the top, and the sun had risen enough so it was merely kissing the horizon. The sky was cloudless, and under different circumstances, would have been a beautiful day. The hill, which was central to the island, gave the perfect view of the entire coastline. One village, on the other side of the island was larger than the rest. From what I could tell, the huts were in a circle, with a dominant hut and a fire in the centre. It looked like the ideal place for the chief of the Mirefin tribe, if such chief existed. Before heading down the other side of the hill, which was steeper and rockier than the way I had come up, I scanned the sea, and saw a small dot, which must have been the dinghy, off near the horizon. They seemed awfully far away from me, if I got into trouble. I shrugged off the thought and placed faith in my cloak. After all, according to Branchard, it had saved my father's life several times. Perhaps he once did something like this.

I stumbled down the rocky side of the hill. Fortunately there were no Murlocs around to hear me trip and stagger loudly down the rocky slopes. The terrain must have been just as difficult for them, so it is good fortune that they stayed well away. Once reaching the bottom, I tiptoed through the trees and headed towards the rising plumes of dirt-grey smoke. I was certain this was the hub of the Murloc society. From one of the huts, I could hear drums. The rhythmic war-like sound of percussive instruments made me stop and think that these creatures may not be as primitive as I had previously thought. They had a common language, and music, and a clearly hierarchical society. They may be just as civilised as we humans.

That thought came to a stop when I saw one Murloc on the beach lying on its back. It tipped its head forward and vomited profusely over itself. I didn't stop to look but I did notice an undigested fish head roll off its stomach onto the sand. I carried on and made my way into the village.

The huts here were more complex than the tiny hamlets that dotted the shorelines. For a start they were raised off the ground, so as not to be flooded at high tide. They were for the majority circular and made of wood with crudely-thatched straw roofs. Some even had small square holes in the walls that served as windows. All had bamboo steps leading up to basic doors. A group of four Murlocs; two warriors and two beige electric-summoning ones surrounded the fire. The place was quite noisy with nasal gargling, and general stomping of the Murlocs in the buildings. The Murloc city was a hive of activity. I decided to search the buildings, starting with the large central one. I crept up to the door, creeping very carefully around the two warriors at the fire. This was going to be hard; the two beige summoners were staring straight at me, and would probably notice a door being opened by itself. I needed a distraction. My rucksack was under my cloak. I fumbled around in it and felt a metal hook, which I normally attach to the fly on my fishing rod. Perfect. I took it out and aimed at a large smooth rock behind the fire, on the other side of the four Murlocs. I threw it hard. It hit the rock square on with a satisfying _tink_. I was pleased with my aim. The four Murlocs flicked their heads towards the sound in surprise and I took the opportunity to sweep open the door, and close it silently behind me.

There was no living thing inside. I cursed under my breath. There was, however, makeshift furniture and hoarded belongings. Several lockboxes with the word Ratchet inscribed upon them were piled up by the window. Each one had severe dents around the lock. The Murlocs must have become quite frustrated when smashing what was probably rocks at the things and being totally unsuccessful in opening them. I fumbled in my pack. It had Wyahen's thieves' tools inside. I had forgotten to return them, and he had forgotten to ask for them back. Perhaps he wanted me to keep them. I selected a thin key from the ring, as the locks on these boxes were quite tiny, and slotted the twisted strip of metal inside. It didn't fit very well so I selected a smaller key. This one slipped in the keyhole easily. All I had to do was gently rotate it until I heard a quiet _snick _and the box sprung open. Inside was a tightly-packed selection of shiny cogs and copper wires. It didn't seem useful, so I tried the other boxes. One had a beautifully-stitched leather bandana inside. I took it and wrapped it around my face so it covered my nose and chin. The bitter burnt smell of new leather was far more welcome than the stench of rotting fish and disease that was making me feel quite ill. The bandana looked stylish also. The other boxes contained nothing but new mechanical parts. I left them and exited the building. The Murlocs outside were back at the fire. One warrior was examining the area around the rock still. It even scratched its head in a comically quizzical manner. I began to search the other huts, creeping up the stairs and gently sliding open the doors. I was getting used to being invisible. I nearly brushed one Murloc that was sleeping under the bamboo steps. It awoke and blinked up at me. Its vision comprised solely of me, with the sky as the background. It couldn't see me, despite the fact that if it reached out, it could touch my face. It gargled inanely and then went back to sleep.

Inside the second building, there were more of these summoning Murlocs. I was afraid of them, so I left without exploring further. The third and fourth huts were empty. The fifth was storage for dead fish, and the stench overpowered the stiff leather smell of my bandana and I burst out, gagging. This caught the attention of several Murlocs in the water and they came up from the beach to investigate. By the time they reached the hut, I was already out of sight in the next one.

This hut had a curtain hanging from the low ceiling. It was made from the sail of a boat that must have wrecked nearby or possibly been raided by the tribe. I approached it and gently pulled it back. I gasped. It was Band. He was lying on his side. I thought he was dead. I reached forward and turned him over. He was unconscious and still breathing. His face was a bloody mess. He looked like he had been beaten to within a few breaths of his life. His left ear, long and elfin, was rough and matted with blood, as if a dog had attacked him and chewed it. He was bound with reeds. I slapped his cheek, and one battered eye flicked open and looked at me.

"Band?" I whispered. "Band, wake up!" He face showed no recognition and a little fear. I pulled down my bandana and revealed my face. He realised it was me and immediately woke up. One eye was swollen shut, but the other showed a new signal of life and he tried shifting on his uncomfortable bed. He grimaced in pain. I whipped out the dagger from its holster and cut him free. His bonds had made deep lacerations into his skin, and his armour had been stripped.

He tried to speak, but his dry lips were cracked and bleeding. "Not…got your…dirk?" he managed and tried to smile.

"No, the garrison gave me this!" I said. "It's much lighter."

"Do…you have…have any wa-water?" He asked. I didn't.

"I will go find you some. Is your armour around here?" I asked. Band nodded. "Is it in this village?" He nodded again. "Where is it?"

"One of the…Oracles is…is guarding it." He stammered.

"What is an Oracle?" I asked

"They…They are… are the beige-"

"The beige ones with the lightning in their hands?" I interrupted, saving Band his voice. He nodded and tried to stretch. "Wait right there." I placed my cloak and bandana back on and hurried out the building. The water Murlocs had returned, and the four around the fire were nowhere to be found. I started searching the rest of the buildings by silently jumping at the windows. On the building farthest from the shore, the Oracle that Band was talking about was pacing back and forth. Bands armour was piled in the centre of the room, and the Oracle was wearing his helmet. The picture was somewhat ridiculous, like a child dressed in his parent's clothing. The Oracle was also wearing Band's belt, which had his small dirk attached. I snuck round to the entrance and crept inside. The Oracle was still pacing. It had an air of extreme importance, as if the helmet it was wearing had made it king of the Murlocs somehow. It gargled contentedly to itself. I realised I couldn't retrieve Band's armour without it noticing, but I could try stealing the knife from its belt. Band would need that. Every now and then, the Oracle would stop its pacing and stare out the window for a short period of time. It kept repeating this pattern, so I placed myself by the window and the next time it stopped, I gently reached my arm around its waist. It stared out the window, oblivious. I was about to pull the dirk from its holster. It moved unexpectedly. I drew back, breath held. It scratched itself under one arm, then continued staring out the window. I breathed out and tried again. I tightened my fingers around the sharp dagger and pulled as slightly as I could. The Oracle was still staring. I pulled gently until…finally…it came out and I withdrew the dirk under my cloak. The Oracle resumed its pacing and I snuck out.

Next to the village was a rock pool, where the water was brilliantly clear and sparkled in the rising sun. My rucksack contained an empty leather pouch, which I used to scoop up the water. I tasted it. It was beautiful and cool. I hurried back to the building where Band lay prisoner. Dodging wandering Murlocs was a lot tougher when one had to balance a pouch of water simultaneously. I reached it though, and found Band standing and tending his injuries. I handed him the pouch and he drank deeply, then poured a little over his wounds. The lacerations caused by the tightly-bound reeds were disappearing, and he looked much healthier without the dried blood matting his hair and features. His ear, however, looked like it had been scarred heavily. I presume the magical healing powers of the Night-Elf race had its limitations, and this would be a wound Band would bear for the rest of his days. He splashed some water over his swollen eye, and was able to open it a little. He gargled the rest of the water and spat. His lips were no longer bleeding.

"Thank you" He said to me.

"What are you doing here?" I asked. "And why—I mean how—do you …heal like that?"

"I will tell you all I know of Elven healing at a more appropriate time." He said. "As for what I am doing here; I am looking for a small green weed called Stranglekelp. The Oracle that is guarding my armour is holding it. May I ask you a question?"

"Certainly." I said.

"What are you doing on this island?"

"I am looking for the leader of the Mirefin tribe. We are on a smash-and-grab mission, and plan to hold him hostage and get information on why the Murlocs are getting dangerously close to Theramore."

"Perhaps" Band said, "We could help each other out. The tribal leader is an elder Murloc named Burgle. I observed his movements for several days. He is quite a loner, but is surrounded by guards at all times. He travels between this village and the next, a short walk down the beach. He—"

Band paused. We both heard a noise outside. A Murloc gargled.

"They are coming to check on me, quick. Do as I say!" Band ordered. He whispered some commands at me then hid behind the curtain. I crouched in the corner by my cloak. I had my dagger ready. I breathed in heavily. If I didn't do what Band told me at the exact time, I could get both of us killed. The footsteps clanked up the bamboo steps.

The door burst open and there was a brief pause. The footsteps entered, followed by another pair. I saw two warrior Murlocs, both wandering slowly towards the curtain. I stole up behind them, my hands were sweating and shaking, and the dagger was slipping. I held tighter.

One reached out to the curtain. He pulled it back. He gargled in surprise. Band was waiting and pounced. I pounced. Band lunged the dagger straight through the right Murloc's throat, I reached around and plunged my own dagger through the left Murloc's neck. Band's Murloc dropped without a sound. My aim had been off, and my own Murloc cried in pain and for help. Before his cries could be released, however, Band had retracted his dirk from the slumping right Murloc and made a slicing motion across my Murloc's neck. The cry was cut off before it could reach full volume, and my Murloc fell to its knees, grabbing at its throat. It keeled over on the spot where Band had lain for longer than I wanted to imagine.

"Quickly" Band said, "The window". He raced over to the left window and I to the right. From my view I saw Murlocs wandering aimlessly around, clearly undisturbed by the commotion that had happened in this hut only seconds earlier. Band breathed a sigh of relief when he realised that he had been fast enough in silencing both Murlocs before they could summon help. The adrenaline rush we both felt had lessened Band's pain and he appeared at ease and composed now. I threw my cloak around me and dashed out the door. A Murloc, carrying fish, scuttled past. Once he turned into the storage hut, I signalled Band to come out. He darted out and joined me, where we tiptoed along with out backs to the hut. I paced on ahead, and saw two Murlocs standing between the next two huts. I picked up a stone and tossed it over their heads. It made a light thud in the sand and they turned to look at it. I signalled and Band tiptoed past me, getting past the farthest hut just before the two Murlocs turned back. Fortunately, the rest of the way was thankfully Murloc-less, and we arrived at the hut where the Oracle paced. We hid underneath it and heard the tapping steps of the Oracle above.

I had an idea, so I told Band and he agreed.

I snuck up the steps and when I heard the Oracle stop at the window, I opened the door and crept in. I waited. The Oracle continued pacing. It seemed an age before it stopped to stare out the window again. He finally did. I ran at it, and shouldered it hard before it had chance to react to my footsteps. It grunted as the air was expelled from its small body. It was heavier than I expected, but still the force I used was enough to knock it out the window. Instead of the sound of a large object hitting the floor, I heard the sound of a sharp blade slicing through meat. There was the thud of two objects hitting the floor. I looked out the window, and saw Band standing there, with two halves of the Oracle on either side of him. The creature had not even made a sound. Band picked up his helm, which had rolled off the decapitated Murloc's head. He grabbed the two halves of dead Murloc, and dragged them came around the hut and up the steps. Once inside, we congratulated each other, and he placed his armour back on.

"Did you get the Stranglekelp?" I asked, and Band produced it from a pocket. It was odd. It looked like seaweed but had a strange glow to it. I reached out to touch it, and a small spark of electricity shot out and stung my finger. "Ouch!" I cried, and Band smiled.

"It has some strange enchantment on it. I need it because it summons a creature from the sea; a giant called _Dagun_. However, I cannot fight this creature today, so this quest must wait until my strength is restored. That may take many seasons. I feel quite weak."

"No, Band!" I pleaded "You can't give up yet, we have to get off this island!"

"Elune be with us, the situation is _ashta'rodne._" Band said, feeling his ripped ear. He breathed in heavily, and assessed his physical situation. "Very well, _ishnu_ to us, young rogue. Let us find this Burgle and capture him. I have one last battle left in me."

"Thank you, Band" I said. "Why did you call me a rogue?"

"Because" Band said, "it is clear from your sneaking that you would make an excellent thief in the night. Also, that shifting cloak of yours is worn expressly by rogues in the Alliance military. You wield it well; it is far stronger than any weapon I could ever possess."

"Shall we?" I asked.

"I will lead the way." Band said and we exited the hut and carried on down the beach.

The beach was deserted for several miles, but we could see the village Burgle travels to up ahead. "If you did not see Burgle in the village, then he must be travelling between the two. We should be within sight of him soon."

We walked for a mile or so more. I asked Band why he knows this Murloc's name is Burgle.

"Because" Band informed me, "that is the noise every Murloc makes when it greets him."

I imitated a Murloc saying "burgle" and thought that they made this noise anyway, no matter what they were referring to. "How do you know Burgle is a 'he'?" I asked.

"I do not. Can you tell there difference between male and female Murlocs?" Band asked.

"Are there male and female Murlocs?" I replied. We carried on walking.

I saw a troupe of Murlocs up ahead. Band had already spotted them with his keen eyes.

"There is Burgle right there." He said. "And he is surrounded by four Oracles,"

"Right." I said. "What is the plan of attack?"

"If you are to take Burgle alive, you must sap him." Band said.

"Sap?"

"Stun him. Sneak up and use the hilt of your blade to knock him unconscious."

"Oh." I said. I had never done anything like this before. "What if I don't 'sap' him? What if I mess it up and he turns around and kills me?"

"I will do my best to ensure that does not happen. I know you will do your best to sap the creature and knock him out whilst we deal with the Oracles."

"And how do we deal with those?" I asked.

"They are not carrying weapons." Band observed.

"But they conjure electricity!" I protested. "That's much worse than a spear."

"I do hope your reactions are as deft as your light fingers." Band said. "Because if you see an Oracle looking right at you, you would do best to move out of the way. Now disappear! They are coming!"

I turned and noticed they were closer than I expected, and moving swiftly. I draped my cloak over me and melted away into the sand. Band swiftly leapt into a clump of shrubbery around a palm tree.

Burgle and his entourage approached. One of the Oracles gargled. I heard the word "Burgle" used.

As they drew level with the shrubbery, I heard the loud sound of a bird calling. The Murlocs stopped. I stopped, wondering where the bird was. Then I realised it was Band, creating a distraction. I realised my stupidity that I had wasted precious seconds. The Murlocs stood defensively and edged towards the shrubbery, darting their eyes around. I edged towards the group. I had to weave around an Oracle, who I think saw a part of me because it grunted its nasal twang. The others were still concentrating on the shrubbery. I gripped my dagger firmly and raised it above Burgle's head. The Oracle behind me definitely had seen me, By the look on its face, I was sure he was about to call an alarm. I brought the hilt down heavily on the back of Burgle's neck. It made a resounding thump. Burgle grunted and dropped like an anchor. He landed face first into the sand. The oracles twirled around and saw me; I had been unmasked by my actions. They all released a terrible throaty war-cry and were ready to pounce on me. I was surrounded. They had the look of an angry pack of dogs, and I was a helpless rabbit. I even dropped my dagger. I was doomed. Band leapt from his hiding place, higher than any man could jump. He had his dirk ready and came crashing down on the Oracle that was about to take a leaping swipe at me. I saw the tip of the blade exit through the Murloc's chest just before Band floored it with his mighty weight. Band's sudden appearance had made the other three Oracles scatter. They ran several yards away and turned back to face Band and I. I swooped and picked up my dagger. Band had ducked and rolled when he landed and was now back on his feet, leaping at the second Oracle. I heard the terrible sound of chanting. The three Oracles were summoning their strange ball of electricity. I panicked. Band had leapt at the second Oracle with a blaze in his eye. I turned to the closest one to me and lunged at it with my dagger. It broke its chant and leapt out the way. I felt a little relief that it had not had enough time to finish its summoning. It began again, and I saw a small circle of light form between its fingers. The circle grew from a pinprick to a ball of light, and electricity streaked over it, curling around the sphere as it grew. I kicked at the Oracle and my boot landed squarely in its solar plexus. It gasped and broke the spell. The sphere of light evaporated into nothingness and the Oracle fell to its knees. I stood over the miserable creature and plunged the dirk into its eye, extinguishing its life. It fell in a heap to the floor. I turned to face Band. He had easily disposed of his second Murloc, and had turned to see how I was faring. We caught each other's eye and realised that there was still one Murloc unaccounted for. I looked around. It was on my left, standing quite far from me. It was staring at me. Band could not reach it in time. I could not react in time. It had already summoned its ball of electricity and with a quick wave of its scaly hands, it sent the ball flying towards me with the speed of an arrow. I didn't even have time to close my eyes.

The electric ball hit me in the chest.

I recall being flung high into the air. I remember feeling a blissful weightlessness as I careered backwards. The first pain I felt was the pain of landing hard on the sand, and sliding backwards through it, burning my legs, back and thighs. Then the pain of the electric ball hit me. It was like no pain I had ever experienced in my life. The burning sensation, as if every inch of my skin were on fire. The stinging sensation, as if every bone in my body had snapped at exactly the same time. It was excruciating. So excruciating that all air left my body, and all sound left my lips. I could do nothing but fight for air, and I was losing. I couldn't help but think I was dying, and that this death would be a horribly painful death because above all things, I wished the pain would cease somehow. Dizziness struck me and I felt myself falling through blackness.

The pain became numbness. I closed my eyes and felt sleep overpower me.

The gargling of several more Murlocs brought me uncomfortably back to reality. My eyes shot open, and with that the pain returned. I was still unable to make a sound, but I did manage to grab a short breath. It felt like I had been drowning and my head finally burst above the water, but only for a brief moment before I was sucked back down below. The pain was still very real though. I tilted my head and saw that Band must have despatched the Murloc that nearly killed me. My head flopped back into the sand and I faced the small forest of palms slightly inland. The gargle of Murlocs came again, and I saw a troop of several more, perhaps five—at least—all come tearing out of the trees.

Behind them, another group of six more were charging also. They were all making their hideous gargling sounds, and I picked up on the word "Burgle" used several times.

A hand grabbed my shoulder and tugged at me. It was Band. He picked me up and tried to stand me on my own two feet. My legs would not keep me standing, and there was nothing I could do about it. I wasn't sure if I enjoyed this feeling of helpless numbness any more than the agonising pain that engulfed my body only seconds before. I managed to turn my head. The Murlocs were all warriors. Some were holding spears and polearms, one was swinging an axe over its head. They were all racing towards us. We were most certainly doomed. There was no way Band could take on all eleven and keep my limp, lifeless body protected at the same time. We looked at each other and a look of hopelessness washed over me.

An arrow whizzed past the space between our heads. I felt the air it displaced upon my nose. The high-pitched whizzing noise it made stung my ears. I flinched. I opened my eyes to see the arrow sink deep into the arm of the Murloc swinging the axe, only feet away from us. It howled a terrible cry and dropped its weapon. Band dropped to the floor like a stone. As he had let go of me, I dropped too and crumpled like a doll in the sand. With my head facing upwards, I saw a volley of arrows fly over me, and heard the satisfying thumps of them hitting trees, logs and bodies. I turned my head to see all five Murlocs collapsing, numerous arrows poking out of their shining azure-blue scaly bodies at odd angles. A second volley whooshed past, and brought the following six down with ease. Their war-like cries died down to shallow gargles, then all fell silent. For the first time that day, I heard a twitter of birds. I turned my head to the source of the arrows. Floating in the shallows was the dinghy. The soldiers were kneeling in ranks on the boat, with crossbows and quivers. I saw Aviad signalling them to cease fire, and they lowered their weapons. Burgle lay several feet from me. He lay spread-eagled on the sand. A line of snot streaked from his nose to his chin.

The pain returned to my body and became too much to bear. The colours of the beach and sky bled into each other, the world spun into blackness and I remembered no more.


	11. Resuscitation

**Chapter** xi

I awoke. Sounds of pain and anguish suddenly filled my ears. My sight was little more than an aching blur of colour, so I focused purely on what I could hear.

'No, no, no!' an impatient voice said, 'The triage bandages should be fixed like so!'

'But sir—' a lowly voice squeaked.

'_A-bu-bu-bub, shh_!' The impatient voice interjected, 'these men are critically wounded and need the treatment first. These men over here are only _slightly_ wounded and are thus more likely to survive.'

'What about him?' the other voice pipped.

'Him? Oh, he is injured for real. Don't worry about him, he's been out cold for days.'

I recognised the voice, it was Doctor Gustav VanHowzen. I squinted my eyes and tried to get them to focus on the shapes of the ceiling. Little by little the edges of the world began to sharpen and I could make out I was in the infirmary of Theramore garrison. The room was filled with bunk beds and clean sheets. Every other bed was taken up by soldiers all ham-acting. Some had 'Critically Injured!' signs attached to them in red, some had 'Badly Injured!' signs in amber and the rest had green 'Injured!' placed on them. One 'Critically Injured' soldier was acting the most over-blown pain I had ever witnessed.

'Oh!' he cried, 'the _pain_ of it all!' and clutched his arm, howling.

VanHowzen carried a nifty stopwatch with him, and was constantly clicking the mechanisms of the dinky little gadget. Next to him, or beneath him to put it more accurately, was either a child or the smallest man I have ever seen. As my eyesight improved, I could tell that he—it?—was not a child, but an adult. He had a shiny bald head, except for a few hairs at his nape, a beard and whimsical spectacles on, and was half the size of a dwarf. His voice was squeaky and he was rushing around, attaching bandages to all the soldiers with 'Critically Injured!' signs. Some were on the top bunk and the little creature wore himself out climbing up the knotted wooden ladders to wrap the tourniquets.

'Seventy-three seconds!' Called out VanHowzen, his stopwatch clicking and clacking, 'and three of your patients died waiting for treatment! I am afraid, little gnome Raddleknox, that you have failed the exam by one death and thirteen seconds overtime!'

So it was a gnome! I had never seen a gnome before, but I had heard of them. Raddleknox threw down his remaining triage bandage in a petite fit of rage and stomped out of the room. His stomps were virtually silent, however, due to his diminished size. I saw a few veins pop out on his little bald head, which had turned quite crimson with anger. _What a feisty little thing!_ I thought. He slammed the door with all his might. It clicked shut tamely. VanHowzen allowed himself a little giggle, and the soldiers joined in.

'Thank you, gentlemen,' VanHowzen told the soldiers. 'I will need back before sunset for one last exam today.'

The soldiers got out of their bunks and filed out the door, chatting and leaving the injury signs in a pile. VanHowzen pocketed his nifty stopwatch, exited and I was left alone in the infirmary. I tried to sit up, but my torso gave a sharp agonising sting. I lifted the bed sheets to reveal that my entire upper body was wrapped tight in silk bandages. There was no blood, thankfully. I set about removing the bandage. I was well-wrapped and ended up having to reach for a surgical knife to cut through the tourniquet. As the bandages fell away I realised I had been burnt by the electricity, and it had left a perfectly circular red mark upon my midriff. It stung like sunburn. There were several bowls of herbs and creams around my bed, and I presumed they were for the healing process. I rubbed all of them in, including a gritty herb concoction which would have stung healthy skin. It made my eyes water. Once I had formed a neat paste of ointment on my chest, the cooling effect was marvellous and I basked in the comforting chill that replaced the feverish burning.

Band and VanHowzen entered the infirmary. Band had to duck to get in the room. I wish Raddleknox was still here; the size difference between the two of them would have been comically different.

'You are awake!' VanHowzen observed. Band had a cool look of relief upon his face. I nodded.

'You are quite the hero, young master rogue.' Band said. I questioned what he was talking about, and then the entire Murloc episode flooded back to me.

I tried to speak, but my voice was cracked and weak. VanHowzen scooped a rough wooden flagon into a pale of greenish water and thrust it at me. It did not look too appetising but my throat and brain screamed for it and I took down the entire stagnant flask of water in one gulp. A cooked chicken wing lay on a plate, shrivelled and aged a day or two. I bit into it hard to remove the bitter taste the fetid water left. My thirst was slaked, at least.

'What happened?' I asked. 'I mean, how long have I missed?'

'Three days' said VanHowzen.

Both examined my surprise.

Band spoke. 'The mission, despite your injury, was a success. The soldiers fought off many Mirefin Murlocs trying to extricate Burgle. The Murlocs have been cowed and have left many peace offerings of dead fish on the pathways to Theramore. We have yet to release Burgle, who is being thoroughly examined down in the dungeon. We have been able to translate a few of his ramblings, and some people are worried at the results.'

'What results?' I asked.

'I am unsure. You would perhaps like to bring that up with Vimes when you next see him.' Band looked slightly bitter.

'What is wrong?' I asked

'The sole reason I was on that island was to retrieve a keepsake of Burgle's. Now Vimes has confiscated it, and is refusing to part with it. The man has no idea what power it hides and sees it as no more than a pretty necklace. He also berated me for not reporting for duty, despite my capture and incarceration.' Band subconsciously reached for his ear and felt its rough edge.

'I'm deeply sorry' I said. I began wiping off the paste from my chest, and to my surprise and delight, the burning sensation had disappeared, along with the searing red mark. Only a light pinkish circle was left.

'My goodness,' said VanHowzen, 'whatever did you put on you?'

I pointed at the trays of ointments and herbs. VanHowzen examined the combination and spoke to himself.

'Sungrass, Khadgar's Whisker, Thorium filings and Wildvine potion? Let's see, I knew the healing powers of the wildvine and the whisker, but thorium filings as well? I must say, my dear boy, you appear to have fashioned a new remedy!' He immediately scooped up the remaining goo and dribbled it into a crystal-glass vial. 'To the laboratory!' he cried and jostled out of the room.

Band turned back towards me. 'How are you feeling?'

'Fine' I replied, 'better than fine, actually. I feel I have woken from a long and relaxing slumber, and the pain in my chest has completely vanished.'

'When I saw that bolt hit you, I was fearful you would not wake from it' he said, with a hint of sadness.

'I'm a lot more resilient than most people give credit for' I protested. 'Once, this stone gargoyle fell from the battlements, knocked me clean on the back of the head, it did!'

'I'm sure it did' said Band, 'as I am also sure you lived to tell the tale.'

I went to hop out of my bed, but realised I had no other clothes on. Band opened a draw with my clothing in and then turned away as I dressed.

'Thank you,' he said, 'for the rescue.'

'It's quite alright I replied,' wondering where my bandana and father's cloak had got to.

'Have you had enough adventure?' he asked, a little sinisterly.

'I have had enough adventure to last me a lifetime' I said, 'and look forward to heading down the beach with my fishing rod and cooking salty turtle bisque again.'

Band looked disappointed. 'You would rather let your talents dissolve like a sandcastle at high-tide?'

'What do you mean?' I asked.

'Young rogue, it is clear that you have inherited your father's talents. Would you not like to hone those skills and use them to your advantage?'

I saw what he was getting at. I wonder if Vimes put him up to this. 'There is no way I am joining the army,' I said, 'my father has taught me that there is no honour in war, and I do not intend to follow in his footsteps.'

'Not war, young human—adventure!'

I looked at him quizzically. 'What exactly do you mean by adventure?'

'I need a sturdy young rogue to help me on my travels. Vimes has recommissioned me to Arathi, on the other side of the world. I told him I need the necklace he holds, and he forbids it. If I don't take it with me, the mystery imbued in it will never be resolved.'

'Tell me about this necklace,' I said.

'There is a legend that a princess, possibly the daughter of an old god, is trapped within the deep places of this world, and is only able to communicate to living creatures through shards of crystal that are scattered across the globe.' Band spoke with a mystical voice, and used his hands to emphasise the story. He was clearly excited by this mythical build-up. 'Many of these shards have fallen out of lore but there was one that was rumoured to have been stolen by a small fish-like gargling creature, many years ago, in a grouping of islands south of the Barrens. The day I met you was the day I hunted for Burgle. For three days and three nights I hunted those endless beaches, looking for a creature wearing a crystal-shard necklace. Finally, by the largest village on the largest island, I came across what could only be the king of the Murloc tribe of Dustwallow. I observed him for days, and he only ever travelled between two villages, with his Oracle bodyguards. They kept saying Burgle to him, and I presume that is his name. He wore the necklace with a sense of pride. I could hear a voice emanating from the necklace, but could not get close enough to it. I tried to ambush him, but he called the help of a tiny Murloc that was skilled with a net. I was caught off-guard, and then a swarm of Murlocs descended on me. Burgle himself used a spear to gouge my ear. I thought I was dead, but they only knocked me unconscious and dragged me to their huts. For what purpose I do not know. When you showed up I was sure I was having a delirious dream.'

'Coincidence?' I asked.

'I have given it long thought, and I believe it not so. For we both had a similar objective and our paths led inextricably to Burgle himself, if for differing reasons.'

'Why won't Vimes return the necklace?'

'I do not know. That is why I need you to convince him to part with it. Perhaps he is struck by its mystical power. I can hear it singing from his quarters some times, but he acts like he has not noticed a thing. Perhaps you humans are not attuned to the correct frequency.'

'How on earth could I get Vimes to part with the necklace?' I asked.

'He and your father were good friends. Besides, I learned that many years ago, Vimes relinquished a similar trinket to Old Felstaff, on the condition that he returned with a greater treasure. Your father did not disappoint and I hope to use you as leverage, so that we can convince Vimes that, 'pon our return, we will bring back something of higher value.'

'So I am just a bargaining chip?' I said, a little wounded.

'No, no! By Elune, of course not! I need your help and accompaniment as it is, but all is wasted should I not get hold of that pendant.'

I was unsure of what Band was asking of me. The sheer magnitude of such an undertaking was vast enough to become lost in my imagination. Here was a Night-Elf, a creature I had only read about in books, approaching me and asking me to accompany him half-way across the world, with some magical necklace? The entire thought seemed outrageous and impossible. I just wanted to catch fish. Or mend castles. Whichever made me the more money.

'I will leave you to mull it over' Band said, making ready to leave. 'Before you come to a decision, please visit your friend Michael and ask him where his encyclopædias are. Look up the name '_Myzrael_', then return to me. I shall be lodging at the Cleef's Locker.'

With that he bowed to me in respect and exited the infirmary.


	12. The Necklace, the Elf, and the Marsh

**Chapter xii**

The archers were practising out in the dried moat of the garrison. Michael and I were sitting out on the veranda of the Cleef's Locker, drinking sweetened mead which was tasty, if a little weak. I had forgotten to ask for Michael's encyclopædia, and was about to speak when my ear was caught by raised voices, echoing from high up in the garrison. I could hear the rasping, gruff tone of Vimes, and the unusual sound of Commander Samaul's voice being strained. Samaul was generally laconic in utterance, and his tone dulcet and gentle upon the ear, but his voice was shouting now, in an attempt to overpower the drilling hammer of Vimes' roughened speech. Several other voices joined the throng now; although they were calmer and not shouting, they were louder and more powerful than Vimes and Samaul's cursing. The sound of arrows _thwipping_ through the air and _thunking_ pleasantly on straw targets had ceased, as all within earshot was staring up at the arched window, high in the castle. A full-blown argument was raging now, and the stronger, gentler voices began to crescendo, drowning out the two military men. The other voices were not speaking a human language, and I recognised the voice of Band in the throng. The voices stopped. Then silence. Four night-elves marched out of the garrison, to the surprise of all. Band was one of them. Michael drained his glass.

'You go your whole life without seeing a night-elf,' he said to me, 'and then four come along at once.'

I was enthralled. The other three were taller than Band, although not quite as muscular or powerful in stature. One was clearly an elder, as his face bore deep running grooves of care, battle and age. They stopped in front of the drawbridge, and uttered a gentle song, as if they were singing to themselves. Three sabres, similar to Dunafalore emerged from seemingly nowhere and bounded towards the night-elves. The three taller than Band leapt swiftly upon them, turned to Band and said something that sounded like _ishnu dal dee-eb_ and swept off towards the large iron gates of Theramore, disappearing swiftly over the horizon.

Band was left standing there, watching them fly into the haze of the Dustwallow Marshes. The archers resumed their target practice, and Band sauntered towards the Cleef's Locker, where he caught our eye and drew towards us.

'_Ishnu alah, thero-shan,' _Band hailed me, and then bowed to Michael, 'how has the biting wind been faring?'

I realised he was referring to me, and gave a look of bewilderment.

'So you do not yet know your monicker, then?' Band smiled. 'The men call you Biting Wind now.'

I was unsure how to exactly react to that, so I simply said 'what was all the shouting about? And who were those elves you were with?'

'Vimes sold his prize to some travelling priests, fully aware that I could have paid more for the necklace. Yet he is wary of the elf-kind, and I do not blame him, for he has lost many dear to him to my former brethren.'

'Would you care to join us for a drink?' Michael offered, and pushed his tankard of sweet mead towards Band.

'Thank you, _shan alore de hib, _but I must refuse as I have a long journey ahead of me, and a clearer head to keep it.'

'You cannot possibly be heading to Arathi now!' I said. 'The boat does not leave until evenfall.'

'I am no longer heading to Arathi, as I have resigned my post as part of the brigade of the Theramore Alliance.'

We both gave a look of surprise. 'Is that what the shouting was about?' Asked Michael.

'It was,' Band said, 'Vimes has no control over his non-human recruits, I am afraid. You have, I believed noticed, that the Dwarven population of Theramore do not make weapons for the garrison any longer?'

We nodded.

'Vimes is untrustworthy, and has lost my allegiance. The other elves I was with were my brothers from Feralas. Once I have retrieved the necklace from the priests, I am heading back to their stronghold on an island on the Veiled Sea.'

'What are you going to do there?' I asked.

'I have always been a defender of Feathermoon, which is the forest city north of the island. It has a history much forgotten, and much remembered and celebrated.'

My heart sunk. I had spent my time recuperating in the infirmary daydreaming of visiting far-away lands, battling monsters more vicious and powerful than the Murlocs. My face clearly showed signs of disappointment, as Band held out his hand to me.

'Son of Felstaff, are you rested enough to help me retrieve the necklace?'

'Yes' I replied, my frown-lines disappearing. They returned instantly. 'Yet I cannot leave my mother and sisters.'

Band laughed. 'Biting Wind, we are only heading to catch a troupe of travelling priests! They do not travel fast, particularly if they are, as I suspect, dwarven kind! I daresay are barely half a day through the marshes. You shall easily return before two moons have passed.'

My face lit again up again. 'I will do it then!'

I said my farewells to Michael, who took his mead over to the resting archers. They accepted the drink, but refused to let him try their new cross-bows. I headed home.

My house was empty, so I wrote a note and left it upon the table. I left a coin-purse also, which was now stretched and weighty due to the sheer amount of money I had made fishing. I bequeathed it all to my mother, and filled up a second purse with the remaining money, which I attached to my belt. I threw as much as I could into my knapsack. Upstairs, I found my father's cloak; an increasingly difficult task as, with each usage it had become more limber and managed to reflect its surroundings very well indeed. The garrison had furnished me with a hunting and skinning knife, two large daggers, and a bow, which was split lengthways and barely usable. Branchard had visited me in the infirmary and left me a new leather quiver, which smelt of rich rawhide and even filled it with spare arrows, which were a little worn, with ragged quills. I packed the pieces of my fishing pole, and a whole reel of line. I only had one fly left, but it was my lucky fly; on one single day I had caught eleven brilliant Redgills with it, and had not used another fly since. The plumage of the feather was as bright as a peacock, with an oil-shine. The small tackle-box I placed in the bag still had the dizzying funk of the shiny baubles, although the rancid smell was fading and was tolerable. I found some grinding stones from my mason days, and sharpened the two daggers until there was a sharpened double-bevel on each one, tapering to a deadly needle-point. I rubbed some resin on the handle and placed them under two notches either side of my belt. They felt light, lighter than a bread-knife, and I felt they could slice through flesh and bone.

I heard Dunafalore huffing outside, so I lugged my full pack out to the gate. Band took it and threw it over Dunafalore's hide. He took my arm and heaved me up on to the mighty sabre. Her fur was soft and warm, and he was comfortable to straddle. Band murmured a strange noise into Dunafalore's ear and the sabre charged towards the iron gates of Theramore. The miserable guards barely had time to lower the drawbridge before she hurtled over the slanting gate, and leapt off the end. We sailed cleanly over the shallow body of water that separated Theramore from the mainland of Dustwallow. Dunafalore landed elegantly on the path leading towards the endless, like a cat, and continued sprinting as if she had merely jumped over an obstructive puddle. Band was enjoying the feeling of wind rushing through his hair. I was terrified and clinging on for dear life. Dunafalore made protesting noises, which made Band turn to me.

'She says you are holding her fur too tight,' said Band, 'there really is nothing to fear—you may let go.'

I grudgingly loosened my grip and tentatively let go of Dunafalore's flesh. To my surprise, I found myself perfectly balanced upon the sabre. I really was not about to fall off, so I relaxed a little. I realised I had been excessively tense and now my arms and shoulders were aching. We sped down the pathway, and I faced the blazing sunshine. The sky was blue as ink, and there was a single cloud, whipped up like cream, sailing above us. I breathed in deep and felt fresh air fill my lungs. Band, too, was soaking up the atmosphere.

'I am afraid,' he said 'we should not be enjoying the sun for too much longer.'

'Why is that?' I asked, feeling like I had done nothing but ask questions ever since I awoke from the infirmary. Band did not appear to mind. After all, he must have lived many more ages than I could even imagine, and he must therefore have more answers than I had questions. It turns out he was as inquisitive as I.

'How well,' he asked, 'do you know this area?'

I felt a little sheepish.

'I will be honest,' I replied, 'I have travelled barely an inch in comparison to your countless miles. I grew up in Theramore, and Theramore is the entire world to me. There are nearly ten thousand people in Theramore. Did you know that?'

'That seems a small figure, in comparison to the size of the island.' Band said. 'My people's home is an island, larger than Theramore, but ten times the inhabitants.'

'I have never left Theramore,' I continued, 'except, of course, to go fishing down the Dreadmurk shore.'

'Of course,' he said, 'we would not have met otherwise.'

Dunafalore leaped over a felled oak. I myself would have had a hard time climbing over it, but she made such light work of it. I began to suspect she could secretly fly.

'I have often wished of travelling further afield,' I said, truthfully, 'but the world is far too dangerous, and I have far too much responsibility chaining me to the island.'

'So you have never been here?' Band asked. I turned my head, and could still see the tall castle rising from Theramore Island in the distance.

'I did, once.' I said. 'When I was a child, my father took us through the marshes. We stayed at an inn, on the other side. We were near mountains. That is all I remember; the mountains. They were so large and close I could not see the peak or the foot at the same time. We did not stay there long. My father was sent away to a place called Ash Vale on our first night. My mother told me that a troupe of guards escorted her and me back home. I do not remember it. Not even my sisters were born at that time.'

'It sounds as if your father was posted at Ashenvale.' Band said. 'I know the area well.'

'Really?' I said, observing that the pathway was leading us into denser and denser underbrush. We started spending longer in shadow than sunlight, and a slight coldness has made its presence known down my back. 'What is Ashenvale like?'

'It is an area,' Band said with an air of a teacher well versed in his subject, 'of both beauty and danger. It had been the homeland of my people for many thousands of years. That I should live in the era of its downfall is my greatest tragedy.'

'I presume they sent my father to help save it?' I said.

'It is true,' Band continued, 'that the alliance of men and elves has prevented it from falling to corruption and disease. Yet the defence they provided has done little but slow the entropy that engulfs the land.'

'What is corrupting the land?' I asked.

'Orcs, demons, trolls, dragons and scourge,' Band said, in a tone that was nothing but serious. I was unsure how to proceed the conversation, so we sat in silence as Dunafalore's pace began to deaden. The trees had grown taller and denser, and the late afternoon sun was all but hidden. There was not a soul for miles in all directions. I began to feel unsafe, and my thoughts drifted to Band's capture. Awareness of his fallibility increased my nerves. The underbrush was now within touching distance, and the path began to lose its firmness. The carefully laden flat stones that lead out from Theramore gave way to bumpy, rocky terrain. The ground between the rocks grew muddy. Dunafalore's shiny white coat began to fleck with dirt, as did our boots and leggings. Band and his sabre didn't appear to mind. I knew now we were entering the marshes. Small shafts of sunlight beamed down in less frequent rays, and the atmosphere turned hot and muggy. The air began to thicken with the strong musk of vegetation, and breathing became a chore. I looked ahead and saw the path snaking and disappearing in undergrowth ahead. As I looked behind, I saw a similar picture. I had the sudden jolt of panic you only get when you know you are lost. If Band were to desert me here, I may possibly even lose the path and never find my way out.

'These marshes are dead,' Band said, ominously. I shivered, despite the hazy heat. A strong sense of claustrophobia overwhelmed me, and the air was so still, my breaths became shorter and more constricted. The ground to the sides of us, formerly flat, began to rise and fall in uneven hillocks. Dirty brown puddles formed in the small sloping valleys. These gave way to larger puddles and fetid ponds. Small, streams trickled between them. The slow, sludgy water gave a soft gurgling sound that shattered the stifling silence. I wanted to say something—a conversation, anything—to counter the overbearing atmosphere. Band's face had not changed. We could have been riding over open hills for all you could read from his expression. I felt silly, feeling so unnerved, but the smell of stagnant water and rotting leaf began to make me feel queasy. The colour had washed from cool afternoon greens to filthy greys and browns. Bracken crept onto the path, and Dunafalore slowed to a trot to weave around it. As the bracken thickened, Dunafalore gave up edging around it, and began to thrust through it. Disturbing the unruly nature and tangled weeds flushed out all sorts of small, strange creatures. Many-legged, large insects were disturbed and scuttled out of each clump of dense brush. A small snake, disturbed by the heavy paws, slithered out from its resting place and irritatedly glided into a rank pool of grey water. The path was little more than a space between trees and marshy pools now. Dunafalore encountered a small mere of sludge-water and leapt over it, skidding on the slippery, muddy slope on the other side. Once he had scrambled over the apex of the incline, I was relieved to see the pathway, that had deserted us so unkindly, had returned. Nature had yet to assimilate this part of the road into its tangled, murky world. Dunafalore picked up the pace again, and we were speeding past what was now large acres of marshy grasses and waters. The trees had thinned out, but the only light that could penetrate the still haze was strange and algae-green. I looked up, and could not see the sky, nor clouds, nor sun. A hideous sickly green fog rolled at tree-top height, and it was hard to comprehend that we were actually outside, when everything, even the air above us, made us feel so enclosed. I thought that if I shouted, the sound of my voice would be drowned out by the choking miasma. The pungent smell of decaying plant life, rotting through lack of sunlight, became unbearably tangible.

Out, way over a large lake of opaque grey water, a pair of reptilian eyes blinked at me.

Band had noticed it to, and he whispered silently to Dunafalore, who promptly sped up. I was aware that the sabre felt the same atmosphere I now did. The green mist was entombing, and all my senses were shrouded by putrification. The lack of flowing air made me feel as if I were drowning, and my shallow breathing was not enough to keep my brain alert, and I drooped into a dizzying funk. I tried to see the sun in a large clearing. I saw a small circle of cream in the sky, which could have only been the sun, but it was eclipsed by the muggy air, and the only image I could liken it to would be like staring at a dim lamp through the thickest pane of dirty green glass I could imagine. The warm oppressive air was making my nostrils feel dry and cracked, and my mouth tasted nothing but thickness, like the morning I had woken up after drinking far too much mead. I shifted through my pack to find my bandana. The brilliant red of the leather was dulled by the russet and algae-toned surroundings. Still, the sensation of smelling sweet leather allowed me to deepen my breathing and draw me out of my funk. Band was constantly scanning the water.

'Crocolisks?' I whispered. He nodded, keeping a stern face and I felt uneasy. I held one hand on Dunafalore's back, and kept the other firmly upon my dagger. I wanted to put on the cloak from my pack so I would feel more invisible and thus protected, but the dry heat would have intensified to an intolerable point.

The marshes were large expanses of slush, now, and the deafening silence was interrupted by large, gastronomic belches from the water, as oversized bubbles would rise to the surface, and fight the tension in the viscous liquid, before popping and oozing fetid air into the already fetid environment. Gentle slushing and disturbances in the waters were marked by Band and my eyes, and we both could tell that our presence was disturbing the creatures of the swamps. Behind us, we heard a heavy snorting. I turned to see a slimy creature, longer than Dunafalore, on all-fours wade out of the squalid pool and across the path we had just flown across. It slithered, like the snake, into the pool on the other side. It was a crocolisk, and its snorting grunts alarmed the bask of crocolisks that lay barely inches below the clouded waters.

Up ahead of us, the path stopped in front of a small lake, and began again on the other side. Between the two, a wooden bridge was built. Many years ago, it would have stood proud and sturdy, but the damp, cloggy air had weakened the wood and it had collapsed in the centre. The space seemed too far to jump, and the wood looked pall and greened. Lichen grew on it, and many a woodworm had feasted on its foundations, leaving nothing but a man-made rickety husk.

'Hold on tight,' Band said, and I did. Dunafalore complained as I dug my hands deep into her fur, but this only served her to increase her run-up speed. She blazed onto the bridge, and it whined and creaked as such a weight was put upon it, but it held steady. Dunafalore had coordinated her leap perfectly. Her back legs launched skilfully from the very last slat of the broken bridge, and we sailed over the chasm. I allowed myself to feel excited once I had calculated we would land safely on the other side, and Dunafalore landed gracefully and perfectly upon it. I felt a sense of relief as her paws landed on terra firma.

That was quickly replaced by a panic-stricken terror as I realised the other side of the bridge was incapable of taking the force of a full-grown sabre, a human and an elf at the same time. The bridge cracked and collapsed like a flimsy model, and the three of us fell through the smashed slats and tumbled into the filthy swamp water below.

I was thrown from Dunafalore like a rag-doll and tried to gasp, but by the time I did so, my head had already been immersed into the slimy liquid. As a result I inhaled a disgusting mouthful of rank bog water, which made me choke and retch. Water filled my nostrils and forced my eyes open. The salty sliminess blinded me instantly, and I relied on my instincts to force my head above the water. My head burst through the surface and I hacked and vomited vile green stagnant water.

'Gah,' was all I could say as I thrashed around in the quagmire, furiously rubbing my eyes and spluttering marshy liquid. My sight returned and I made out the blurry white figure of Dunafalore scrambling up the bank in terror. I had seen a small cat fall into a pond once, and when it shot out of the water, it moved at a pace I thought impossible for such a small animal. Dunafalore was herself just a giant cat, and she clearly didn't like getting wet as much as any other member of the cat family. She bounded off into the underbrush beyond, in a primitive attempt to distance herself as far from the abusive water as possible.

Band's head emerged from the water, many feet from mine, and closer to the bank. I could see that he could stand in the water. Unlike me, he had clearly not gagged on the water and blinded himself, and was thus able to function in a more productive manner than I. He turned to me, assessing the situation instantly.

'Hush!' he implored, with a look of immediacy on his face. I stopped thrashing and stay still, treading water. I was afraid. My fear was that there was a crocolisk or some terrifying creature within biting distance of me. My throat still was retching hiccoughs, although in my terror I managed to stifle them. Band ducked beneath the water in one impossibly quick motion, leaving not even a ripple in the water where he had been standing.

I heard a snort.

I felt a huff of air hit my neck.

What happened next happened in a fraction of the shortest moment in my life. The primeval action of adrenalin; that wonderful instant chemical that creates a reaction so fast it transcends the scope of time, allowed me to duck and turn my head, not through some conscious decision, but through an unconscious response, as if I was robbed of my own free will.

My vision caught the great underbelly of the crocolisk as it leapt; slitted eyes aflame with primeval hunger passed my own and for a brief moment time stopped as our eyes made the connection.

Time sped up and the great thing came down upon me. My head was semi-submerged in the rank pool and the great fleshy underbelly knocked me squarely downwards. Once again I was plunged under the water, unable to blink in time and feeling my eyes sting with needle sharpness. I felt the thing thrashing around, trying to aim its jaws at whatever part of my body it found exposed. I was not agile in the water, my pack was weighing me down, and my legs appeared to be tangled in a slimy bushel of Stranglekelp, which wound its tendrils around me and dragged me further in. I swiped my arm down to grab a dagger from my belt, but a slippery tendril caught it and wrestled my arm into the thick, anemone-like tentacles of the Stranglekelp. My arm was trapped and useless, and I felt the other one would be bitten off at the first chance the crocolisk had.

I could feel the beast circling me. It obviously did not want to get close enough, in case it became ensnared as I was. I thought about fighting the Stranglekelp to release me, but that was merely leaping from the cauldron straight into the fire. I did not take a deep enough breath before I was immersed again, and my lungs began to beg for air.

I threw myself deep into the swirling tendrils of the Stranglekelp, and they seized upon me as if I was an insect in a fly-trap. Keeping my free arm close to my chest, I allowed the Stranglekelp to wrap itself around my body, keeping my appendages relatively free. I had my pack hugged up against my chest and hurriedly slid open the leather catches, sending small trinkets and bits floating out. The cloak was on top, and it was heavy. I couldn't reach below it so I pulled it out as carefully as I might without the tendrils seizing my free hand, and it floated out. The tackle box was also in there, and I flicked the clasp with a nail. The box sprung open, sending a large bubble of air out into my face. I made the most of it and inhaled sharply, tasting the filthy stilted air, but relieved nonetheless that my lungs could go another few moments more. I realised that a maggot had come out of the bait box as the thing flung open, and had been part of the air bubble I inhaled. I resisted gagging and frantically searched for what I was looking for. The cloak floated towards the surface, unballing itself.

Through the tiny cracks of my burning eyes, I saw a small gleam, as my hunting knife flashed what little light penetrated the viscous surface of the swamp. My free arm snatched at it, and with a single swipe, I sliced off half of the Stranglekelp's ensnaring tendrils. The grip it had over me loosened immensely, and I worried I was free enough to float out, straight into the crocolisk's mouth. I forced myself further into the Stranglekelp, although the remaining tendrils were releasing me as it recoiled from its decapitation, I was still hidden from the crocolisk. My lungs gave one last cry for air, so I crouched onto the firm muddy bottom of the lake, coiled and ready to spring. With my remaining force I heaved my weight up, straight into the unballed floating cloak, which enshrouded me and clung to me. I swam up and up with a frenzied air of immediacy and burst out the surface with a hefty gulp and guzzle of air.

Although the crocolisk could not see me, as I expected, it was well aware of my presence, thanks to my frantic splashing around as I reached the surface. My vision returning somewhat, I saw it circling, trying to make sense of how I could be there—making noise—but completely invisible to its eye. It snapped tentatively at the area it thought I was in, but I had ceased my splashing now and began to silently tread water away from the danger.

I could no longer contain it however. Scrunching up my face as much as I could, could not prevent it happening. I was barely feet from the crocolisk when the loudest of natural reactions—a sneeze—was imparted from my lips and bunged nostrils.

'Ahk-_tew,' _was the sound I made, and the spasm was so violent my head snapped to one side—the side of the crocolisk—and a splaying of mucus and pond-water sprouted from my facial orifices and landed squarely upon the snout of the grizzling croc.

I had given my position away, and could feel another sneeze welling up at the back of my nasal passages. The croc snuffled and impulsively snapped its head towards me, where my position had now become completely revealed to it. It gave what I thought as an angry smile, although in reality its expression did not change, and I was simply anthropomorphising it at such an inappropriate moment. Slowly its jaws opened and again, I thought it was about to laugh an evil, maniacal laugh. It sprung at me, head sideways, jaw agape, primed to snap its many rows of jagged yellowed and greying teeth down over my entire head.

I froze; my body had given up in its reaction and I floated there helpless to its frenzied advance, like a log. No adrenaline was here to save me this time, I merely stared at the reddish-purple cavity that was its throat as its jaws rushed towards my still head.

I squeezed my eyes shut, and my only feeling was a fleeting sense of sadness.

I heard a whistling sound.

It was followed by a meaty thud.

Then the croc landed upon me, its mouth swallowing up my entire head. I felt the razor teeth lacerate my cheeks and ears as the jaws consumed me. I gave a tiny, yet shrill, squeak of terror.

The jaws did not bite down.

I stayed rigid with fear for an eternity, waiting for the jaws to clamp the life out of me, but the creature stayed motionless. I opened my eyes, and saw only a giant, pustule-riddled tongue and a cavernous throat in front of my eyes.

I did not feel its breath.

Still frozen and stiff with terror, I reached up and pulled my head gently out of the crocolisk's mouth. As my head came free of the giant toothy mouth, I saw why the croc had not bitten down upon my head after it launched itself at me. Just behind its right eye, the shaft of one of my arrows protruded. The arrow had entered the creature right behind its eye, near the back of the skull. The sharp, serrated edge of the rusty arrow head had popped the eyeball as it thunked into the creatures brain, and the jelly was oozing down the side of the croc's head. It rolled over onto its back and floated, belly up. I was still bent rigid in the same cowering pose as before the beast struck.

Allowing myself to relax a little and unhinge my unyielding limbs, I swivelled my head and saw Band standing, my crossbow poised in his hands. He was aiming straight at me. I smiled and waved indicating I was relatively uninjured when he loosed another arrow, straight at me.

I barely had time to gasp as I saw the arrow fly faster than my eyes could track it.

It whistled over my head, and I could feel the wind in its wake whip my hair. I heard another meaty thump behind me, followed by an agonizing snort. Whirling around, I saw another crocolisk slump into the water, an arrow protruding directly between its eyes. It grizzled and groaned as the life drained out of it. Another arrow whistled over my head and landed firmly in the crocolisk's thick scaly hide, extinguishing its life once and for all.

Once I had ensured no more crocolisks were attempting to eat me, I set about retrieving the arrows, my pack and all the little possessions of mine that were floating in the centre of the murky green pool.

As I lugged my wet belongings out, and collapsed, wretchedly, at Band's feet, I muttered a word of thanks to Band, who was just relieved to see I was not dead. Dunafalore, I had noticed, had returned, and was skulking around a tree bough, nervous about getting anywhere near the water. My quiver was still strapped to her side. Band must have run to retrieve her to have got my crossbow, which explains why he had not helped comfortably earlier. Band wrapped a blanket around me, and I used the corners to wipe the seeping blood from my stinging cheeks.

'The cuts are thankfully not deep,' Band said, examining me, 'except this one here near your jaw. One of the crocolisk's teeth must have sunk in quite firmly there from the impetus of its lunge at your head.' I sat there, shivering and miserable, but thankful nonetheless to be alive.

Band got up, and leaped into the pool. I thought he was mad for doing so, but he splashed around quite at ease, picking up my tackle-box and fishing rod from the bottom of the murky water. He also grabbed most of the severed Stranglekelp, and wrapped it up, placing it in his pack on Dunafalore's back once he got out.

I was sitting on top of a dry mound; the hazy heat was not letting me dry out thoroughly, and I felt ratty and uncomfortable. I was also exhausted and keeled over into sleep, as Band was preparing a small cooking fire near the top of the mound. I shut my eyes, regretting ever allowing myself to come along on such an uncertain adventure, and sleep overtook me.


	13. Breeching the Canopy

**Chapter xiii**

I awoke from a peaceful dream. My eyelids fluttered open and a gentle glowing light spread warmth over my face. I smiled. The world around me materialised, and I found myself not, in fact, in my room on a summer's morn but lying uncomfortably in the same position on a mound of filthy, muddy gunge and weeds, in the centre of Dustwallow Marsh. I tried to roll my head over but I was in a state of numb paralysis. Suddenly, I realised I was as wet as when I had crawled miserably out of the crocolisk-infested swamp, and my joints had seized up, leaving me in a painful foetal position.

'_Agg_.'

I made a monumental effort to stretch out, but my body refused to budge. It had constricted itself into this position in my sleep, and the cold, clammy water had cemented my limbs so they were stuck, rigid.

I wrenched my head back. My neck gave much resistance, but it finally cracked a loud, echoing snap.

'_Agg_!'

I unfurled my body, and felt aches and pains in muscles I did not even know existed. After several minutes of painful stretching, I managed to sit up. My damp clothes clung heavily to my body, and my skin felt sore. With every movement, the thick wet cloth gave painful friction. My elbows had cracked and were stinging. The pit of my knees chafed and had undoubtedly gone red and swollen. I could not get my leggings off to check, as they too, clung to my body parasitically.

'_Agg…'_

I noticed I was alone. Band was not here, and Dunafalore was not tied up anywhere. A child-like panic of being lost and abandoned hit me, and my heart seized up like much of the rest of my body. I scanned the dense brush and trees. Nothing. The fire that Band had made several feet from my left side had succeeded in drying out the small portion of my body closest to it (my left shoulder) but the rest of me had remained wet. The fire was out now, so there was no point in trying to dry the rest of me out.

'Band?'

No answer. I cocked my ears tentatively. Silence. Heavy, oppressive, morning silence. Not even a hoot or twitter, or—thankfully—a reptilian slither.

Band fell from the sky and landed at my feet. I jumped in alarm, which made all the sore tender areas of my body sting wildly.

'_Agg_!'

He had fallen from a great height, in complete silence. He had landed, cat-like, on his feet and completely uninjured. His arms were outstretched to maintain balance, and his knees were bent double. I looked up, and saw that he had leapt from a massive branch overhanging our camp area.

'Apologies for the alarm,' Band said, 'did you sleep well?'

I gave him a look of outright misery. 'No,' I said, pouting, 'I am in horrible pain and I am still wet.'

He held out his hand 'come with me.'

I did not have the energy to resist, and he pulled me up with one powerful stroke. The wet clothes wrung around my limbs, rubbing them painfully. I felt so sore and despondent that I nearly relented to an urge to curl up and weep for home. Band led me to the base of the tree and threw me at it.

I instinctively threw my arms out, and clutched the low-hanging branch. It was as thick as my leg. Band deftly scrabbled up the rough bark, and leapt majestically onto the branch, where he hoisted me up. Before I could even set my feet down on the thick branch, he hurled me again to the one higher.

This continued for several branches, each higher than the last. Band scuttle up the bough of the tree like a squirrel, as if he were entirely weightless, and he threw me as if I were weightless too. I'm glad he had faith in my ability to hang on to the branches he launched me at, for the length of time it took for himself to scramble up. I guessed that the tree we were in was some kind of fern, or possibly pine hybrid. It had needle-like leaves, that kept scratching at my tender clammy skin with each throw. It got thicker and thicker as we neared the top. I still could not see the sky. This tree seemed to go up forever. I guess every tree in this forsaken swamp had to, if it wanted to reach light. The branches soon became close enough so Band didn't have to throw me. I was thankful for that, and climbed myself up each limb, with all the speed and vivacity of a tired sloth. The sky must be here somewhere! I saw what looked like to be a ceiling of green pine-needles above me. The trees in the surrounding area had created a kind of canopy; a single layer of greenery that blocked out all the sun's light, except for a turgid green glow, that had enshrouded me for our entire day and night's journey. The canopy ceiling was thick. Band realised I had not the energy to burst through so he thoughtfully threw me upwards, careering me through the carpet of green, and I burst out into the blazing sunlight above.

'Agg!'

The warm midday sun hit my face with such vigour that I took a sharp intake of breath, much as a drowning man would when he breaks the surface of water. The heat was intense, and penetrated my soggy clothing instantly. Band followed up through the hole in the canopy he created using my body as a missile.

I looked over the horizon. It was a sheer carpet of green, level for miles in all directions, bumping and sloping off in places, and disappearing into the hazy horizon. We were the very centre of this strange green world.

'Can you see Theramore?' Band asked, pointing to the horizon.

I squinted. I could see that I was looking towards the sea, as the horizon was oblivion, and the haze of trees met the sky, whereas in all other directions, lazy obscure mountains placed themselves between the canopy and bright blue atmosphere. I saw what appeared to be the turrets of Theramore garrison peeking out.

I sat and stared. The baking sun dried my clothes out within minutes. Band disappeared below to retrieve Dunafalore, who was a very exploratory creature. He had brought up my pack with me. I searched through it, and was pleasantly surprised to find everything clean and dry, as if he had spent the night cleaning and polishing the slime-ruined articles within my rucksack. I was able to take my clothes off now, and the chafing was unbelievably painful. I peeked down, and made sure Band was not coming back up. I felt a little exposed up here, and then realised that I was in possibly the most secluded place on earth, and basked comfortably, feeling the moist, pruned skin dry out. I inspected my appendages and found that, yes, they were red, rashy, lacerated affairs. A few minutes in the sun had let the wet rash fade, along with the pain, and I had some rejuvenating cream in my pack. It was mainly there to prevent sunburn; the town's alchemist, Narett, had formulated it out of camomile leaves. They were good for ridding rashes and burns too. I caught sight of my chest, once the redness had subsided, and saw the perfectly circular injury that the Murloc oracle had given me. I hoped it would not be a lifetime scar, yet by the look of it, I realised I may have to carry it the rest of my days.

As the minutes passed, my body's rejuvenation counteracted the misery I had felt when on the ground, and I made stricter observations of this strange never-ending carpet of tree leaves. Many miles to the south, possibly more than I could travel in a lifetime, the dark green turned a faint, sickly brown, then a dismal black, as if a shadow of a dark cloud over-passed the region. Up in the endless sky, there was not a single hint of a cloud, and I presumed there must have been a forest fire or something. The edge of the darkness gave way to bleak mountain ranges.

A long time passed. I was significantly dry and comfortable enough to dress again, and I wore my cloak. Band reappeared after a while, and did not notice me. He scratched his head; his pupil-less eyes glowing quizzically, and he headed back down again. I followed, and managed to beat him to the bottom (He was rather more adept at ascending than descending) where I found Dunafalore, and leapt upon her back. I realised she did not see me in my cloak and she bolted in terror.

'_Agg!_ Whoa!' I cried. Dunafalore calmed, but eyed me stoically, apparently unimpressed with my unintended stunt. Band had arrived now.

'Oh, I did not see you come down,' he said, 'anyway, we should be moving on.'

He gathered his things, removed our tracks from the small mound, and rolled some turf over the campfire, making it look as though we had never even touched the area, then leapt onto Dunafalore.

We rode off at speed, and had gone for several minutes before I noticed something odd about the direction we were travelling in.

'Band, where are you taking us?' I asked. 'We have been this way before.'

'I am sorry, young rogue,' Band said, quite mournfully, 'but I am returning you to Theramore. It was a mistake to bring you.'

I was heartbroken.

'No!' I cried. 'No,' again.

He looked puzzled. 'I thought—you led me to believe you were not, what can I say—_enjoying _this trip?'

I stumbled over my words. 'What? No! I mean, _yes. _I mean, I wasn't. But now I am.' There was a pause. 'Please don't take me back.'

Band breathed some words and Dunafalore slowed to a canter. 'You must realise that this travail is potentially more dangerous than you have ever encountered.'

I nodded.

'Far more hostility you shall meet than Murlocs, or Crocolisks. There are things out here that eat those in a mouthful. There are towns—human towns nonetheless—where the landlord will cut your throat in your sleep if he catches one of these delightful trinkets you have in your bag in his eyes.'

I kept my face steady, not showing him that this little speech was terrifying the life out of me. He continued.

'We are sitting in the centre of a contested area.'

I think he meant that remark to scare me, but I was unaware of what a contested area was.

'The Horde roam freely in these woods, and an Orc, or a Forsaken, or even a Troll could stumble upon your presence. These savage beasts have no word for remorse. Or mercy.' Band became animated, and a look of hatred spread across his usually fine-lined features. 'They only stand for hate, and destruction. Foulsome beings. You will die in two heartbeats if your wits are not sharpened by the first.'

'Orcs?' I asked.

'Yes. Orcs.' Band naturally assumed I knew what on earth he was talking about. If they were anything like crocolisks, then I felt I could handle them.

'So what happens if we do perchance stumble upon an Orc?'

'It will kill you where you stand.'

'Then I will be ready.'

'They have trained animals; creatures that can smell your scent from a mile. Birds, beasts, venomous foul critters that glide silently and invisibly. You will not see them, nor feel them bite down on your neck until it is too late.'

'You are trying to scare me,' I said.

'You are not scared enough,' Band retorted, 'no, I must take you back.'

I protested. 'Please, Band, you only told me it is two days journey. Perhaps if we make it the extra day to catch up with the priests, then…' I was unsure how to finish the sentence. 'I would not wish to impede your journey by two days if you have to return me.'

Dunafalore had stopped entirely by this time. She seemed afraid at the mention of the word Troll, and was tentatively scanning her surroundings; gentle eyes flicking from side to side, vivaciously. Band had taken my argument into account, and was caught in two minds. He looked both ways, gauging whether my safety, or his quest factored higher. He looked at me.

'Will you stay alert every second you are awake, from the second you awake to the second you sleep?'

'I promise.'

Band merely nodded. Dunafalore turned half-circle, and the three of us charged off in the direction we had originally set out in; westwards into the unknown.

9


	14. Lost Point

**Chapter xiv**

We had been riding for a full day, and Dunafalore's soft coat was not enough to stop me feeling decidedly saddle-sore. The sun must have passed over the whole sky, not that I had been able to see it under the endless green canopy, but what little light did filter through was weakening.

We had not met another soul, and I was feeling decidedly alone in the world. Even the croaking of toads and the chirrup of crickets had faded to an eerie silence. Dunafalore's gentle rhythmic paw padding on the soft ground was making me sleepy.

'Look,' Band said, 'up ahead.'

Far in the distance, a monolithic obelisk stuck out from the gloomy green and brown. It looked like it was made of stone, from the dull grey appearance. A man-made building, I thought, that looked quite out of place in the centre of the swamp. The path we had been travelling had given in to creeping nature many miles ago, and I was relying solely on Band's sense of direction to lead us through the mire.

I was fearful of this unnatural apparition of stone, reaching far into the sky, possibly above the canopy. Perhaps it was because I had been mulling Band's announcement that we were in a 'contested zone' that I realised that not all man-made things in this place would be friendly.

Dunafalore was heading straight for the tower, and Band was not dissenting, so I was hopeful it may be friendly.

'An Alliance watch-post—Lost Point!' Band called. 'A good friend of mine was stationed here many years ago.'

'Why would anybody want to stay out here?' I asked.

'The creeping swamps must have isolated this part of Dustwallow,' Band said, 'years ago, there was a festival celebrated in this very tower. This, of course, was before the war, and the fireworks could be seen for miles around. Children and young-hearted adults would dive from the great heights of the parapet crenels of the tower into the deep blue lagoon below.'

As we approached, I could make out that the "deep blue lagoon" was now a "festering sickly-green quagmire." Band noticed also, and his heart sunk. Something was awry with the tower. It appeared sunken and leaning, as if the foundations were not as solid as they once used to be. As we passed into a relative clearing, we managed to see the watchtower in its entirety. The building was a desiccated wreck. Many large stone blocks, which would have taken several men to lift, had fallen out of the walls, leaving rounded rectangular black holes, surrounded by rain-slick lichen creeping out. One side of the tower had collapsed completely, exposing the many floors to the harsh, erosive weather. The massive wooden portcullis had fallen off its hinges and rotted where it lay.

'The swamp subsumes all,' Band said philosophically. 'Well, seeing as it is deserted and there is little other cover, we may as well use it to rest up the night. Tomorrow, when my head is not so weary, we can get back on track. I appear to have lead us far too south.'

Band and I dismounted off Dunafalore, who bounded over the slimy stone bridge over the moat, and dived through a hole into the basement of the tower. We sidled over the slippery bridge, and I took a good look at what would be my home for the night. The place looked eerie and ominous, almost as if the dilapidated stone battlements were haunted. The surrounding trees had overshadowed it, when once I guessed that the opposite was true. The building itself was circular, with sliver-like arched windows at various intervals. Through the broken door I saw the ground floor of the place—the entire floor was a single, circular room. A stairwell, or remains thereof, coiled around the inside of the walls.

A slight breeze was swirling lazily around us—it was the first movement of air I had felt during the two days in the marshes. Despite its gentleness, the air whistled through the cracks and crevices of the Lost Point tower.

Inside, the floor was relatively intact, though infested with woodworm. It was damp and creaked with every step. I felt if I jumped hard enough, I would break through and fall into the basement where Dunafalore was traipsing about. The furniture had been left untouched, for what looked like uncountable winters. The wood of the table and chairs has rotted, with one or two chairs collapsed at weak points in their legs. The grand table at the centre of the circular room had various paraphernalia on it. Oil beakers, nearly full, in clouded worn glass; a fruit bowl, with the fruit long since rotted, leaving nothing but a scabby black mess; plates piled high at one end, as if a hearty meal had been finished, and the servants had yet to carry the crockery to the kitchen. The plates, which were once undoubtedly gleaming white, were aged with a slimy oily brown coating. Tankards of beer and mead stood forlornly, some half full of insipid black liquid. The chandelier, of a hundred candles, had been overpowered by gravity, and had fallen from the ceiling and crashed onto the centre of the table, sending small nubs of candlesticks in all directions. The candle holders on the walls oozed wax, like frozen water mid-drip over the edge of the blackened brass.

Band ignored the table and had made straight for the far end of the circular room, where a cache of weapons was lying, disturbed, as if a horde of people had rushed to grab a sword, or a hunting rifle. In the midst stood an archaic suit of armour. Far too heavy and cumbersome for a contemporary fighter. Band still could not resist trying on the large, pointed burnished silver helmet, with a bright red plumage cocked out at a jaunty angle.

I began to examine the weapons and various armour as Band struggled to removed the heavy helm. Weeds had fought their way inside through the widening chinks in the wall, and tendrils had curled around most of the quivers, rifles and chests. Exposure to the weather had aged and rusted most of the items, rending them useless, but I found a quiver of undamaged steel-tipped arrows, and took them. A small tinder box caught my eye. It was half-swallowed by the creeping ivy, and I wrenched it from its sneaking prison. As I opened it up, a host of glinting, colourful gemmed rings stared back at me, like a glorious many-eyed creature. Band had wrested the bucket-like helmet from his head and joined me. We gazed at the rings in awe.

Band took one; a glinting azure-studded coiled snake of a ring. He held it up to me. 'Take this,' he said.

I took it.

'What can you feel?' he asked.

I held the ring. 'Nothing,' I said. I felt a warmth spread over my finger tips and over my hands. 'Wait,' I said, 'I can feel a tingling. It's spreading. It feels…_odd._'

Band smiled. 'You have never held an imbued ring before?'

I had not. But Band already knew that.

'There are jewel-crafters in this world,' he said, 'who can muster the arcane power of the planet, and trap it within an object.'

'Oh, really?' I said, unsure of whether this was some Elven hoodoo.

'Oh, yes,' Band continued, 'powerful, powerful magisters. They realised that imbuing rings with the power wielded from the earth and the atmosphere would allow the power to be transferred to the user when he or she…or it…wore it on the finger.'

'The warmth is spreading all over me!' I said, excitedly. 'Should I wear it?'

'I would not wear that one,' Band said, and took it away.

'Why not?'

'Because,' Band explained, 'wearing such a ring would entrench its power within you. It would bind the ring to you, and you to it. This ring would be useless if you were to give it to somebody after wearing it. A worthless, cheap trinket.'

He picked up another ring. This one had a plain gold band, with a cloudy red gem set deep into it. On closer inspection, the gem appeared to contain a cloud, like a blood-red crystal ball, and the smoky puff swirled gently within it.

'Why should I try this one on?' I asked, taking it. I felt another sensation, subtle but noticeably different than the azure snake-ring. It spread quickly over my arms and legs.

'You will see.' Band said, and smiled.

I placed it over my finger. A jolt of static electricity snapped at my finger tips and I recoiled

'Agg!'

A sudden power enveloped me; I could feel it swirling like a gas cloud circling me. My limbs felt looser, my mind felt sharper, and my hands suddenly could move swiftly, in all directions. It was as if my entire life had been spent in tar and only now I was out in the free air. Band had picked up an arrow. He threw it straight at me, like a dart. I instinctively curled my body out of the way, whilst simultaneously reaching out and plucking it from the air with uncanny grace and precision. I felt as if I could willingly slow down time, whereas in reality my body was simply more instinctive and could react faster.

'What is this thing?' I asked, amazed. Band launched two arrows at me, and I ducked and caught them both simultaneously.

'You are experiencing the power of the earth channelled solely into your body.' Band said. 'I believe these magisterial jewel-crafters know their trade quite well.'

'Why can't I have the other ring too?' I asked.

'It would not improve you in the way this would.'

'Why not?'

'This particular ring-crafter has instilled the ring with the ensnared power of agility,' Band said, 'hence why you can move and react faster to your environment.'

'This is amazing!' I said, enraptured with this new-found movement. I felt as nimble as a squirrel, and as graceful as a snake striking its prey.

'The jewel makers call this the aspect of the monkey,' Band said, 'I believe it is because they see monkeys as the most agile of all creatures. You will probably notice you have more energy, and no longer tire easily.'

'So what power was imbued in the other ring?' I asked, darting around the room, leaping over the broken chairs.

'The azure ring had channelled arcane power to afflict one's intellect.'

'Well, why can't I have that?' I asked, petulantly. 'I could use some more intelligence.'

Band laughed. 'It is not that kind of intellect.' He rolled the ring around in his fingers, not letting it slip on a finger accidentally. 'An increase in intellect allows one to channel the arcane powers of the earth themselves.'

'What does that let them do?' I ask. I had slowed down now, deliberately forcing myself not to overindulge in this new-found energy. I sat still, on a battered chest, enjoying the buzz the ring gave me, not daring to take it off, lest I lose the thrill forever.

'There are people and creatures all over the world that can summon the power of the elements: fire, ice, wind, water, holy, nature, and shadow.'

'What is shadow? That's not an element,' I said, deeply interested in what Band was explaining. Neither was holy, ice, or nature, but Band said the word "shadow" with such a sinister undertone, I had a sudden desire to know what it was.

'Shadow is the darker power of this world,' Band said solemnly, 'an incantation can unleash a powerful curse upon the intended target, putting the poor creature in terrifying pain.'

'I have never met anyone capable of that,' I said.

Band was now sifting through the box of rings 'The world does not end at Theramore.' He brought out a giant ring that curled again and again in a spiralling dragon's tail. There were tiny yellow gems set deep into the shimmering gold, and at one end, a large cut dragon's head with a wide maw of a mouth. The gold dragon stared angrily into space. 'I believe this is the only ring suitable for me.' He removed one of the rings from his finger, and tossed it in the box. He slid the dragon ring over his elongated finger. I saw his brilliant pearl eyes widen, and he breathed in deep.

Band did not move his head. He merely beckoned me. 'Hand me my sword.'

I reached down into his pack, and he took the sword and inspected it, as if he had never laid eyes on it before. He held it above his head, and brought it down hard upon the table. The sword cleaved the table in two, as if it were made of matchsticks. The contents rattled and fell. The plates and fruit-bowl smashed, and the tankards spilt their fuzzy liquids.

'I have been imbued with the channelled power of fury and strength.' Band said, and let the sword fall to his hip. He picked up the box, and threw it back into the pile of armaments. 'The rest of the rings have either been worn and are of no use, or the channelled power within them is not powerful enough to register to either of us.'

I was staring at my cloudy ruby-like ring. I had read of things like this existing. I presumed the Murloc Oracle that launched that volley of electricity at me must have worn a similar ring. I practiced balling my hands the way the Oracle had done when it summoned the glowing sparking orb. Nothing came between my hands. Although moving my appendages in such a way gave me an eerie sensation, as if I was tapping into an invisible resource of energy. This new outlook on the world in which I inhabited was exciting me immensely.

'Night has fallen,' Band called from the entrance, as he tried to heave the heavy fallen portcullis. I went over to help him.

'We should find a safe room to sleep.'

'I would suggest the basement, but I have a feeling it would be damp and cold, and upstairs would be too dangerous, judging by the gross structural damage of the building.'

We managed to upright the door, and it remained in one piece. We leant it against the arched entrance, and it covered most of the exposed section. The cold of the night was creeping in.

'Then we will sleep in here. Shall we keep guard?' I asked, as I moved around, collecting candle stubs and lighting them with the thankfully dried tinder and flint I always keep in my knapsack.

'Alright,' Band said, 'I will take first watch. Dunafalore!'

Dunafalore's head appeared from a rotted hole in the floor. She looked excited, and squeezed herself out of the gap. I smelt a warm bitter smell emanating from the basement. Holding a candle I looked down, and saw rows of untouched kegs of imported meads, each with an intricate "Steamwheedle Cartel Export Co." logo branded on the woods. I let myself down, and heaved a small keg up, beaming.

'Care to join me?' I asked. 'I'm not saying we should get smashed, or anything.' I used a rag to wipe out a filthy tankard until it was passably clean, and Band did the same. I used the base of the heavy wooden tankard to knock the small tap off the keg, and let the sweet mead flow into each glass. The mead tasted honey-like, and was golden and clear. Band and I drank until I felt a little tipsy. The warmth of inebriation staved off the increasing cold of the night. I don't recall, but I fell asleep at the table I drank at.

I awoke several hours later in a seated position, with the tankard, near empty, still in my hands. It was pitch black. All but two of the candles had gone out, leaving two small circles of illumination giving all the objects in the room an ethereal quality. My head hurt, and I could feel the rough hewed surface of the table had left an imprint on the left side of my face, which felt numb. I stared out at the room for a long time, feeling fully awake and aching. The mead had been stronger than I expected. As my eyes focused through the gloom, I made out Band sleeping in the centre of the floor, with his head resting on a massive pillow. Where did he get that from? I thought, before realising it was Dunafalore, curled up like a cat in front of a fireplace. The two were sleeping soundly.

We were not alone in the room.

There was a large outline of a man creeping along the walls.

He passed the candle, and I saw that he was far too large to be a man. He was as tall as Band, and stockier. Judging by the slowly moving silhouette, I estimated that his arms were as wide as my thighs. Whatever he—or it—was, stopped in front of the dim stump of candle. The glow the lined the giant man or creature's face and I could make out it had large, pointed ears, like Band's but wider. It also had what appeared to be creamy white tusks, like stumped stalagmites, protruding upwards from either corner of its mouth. Its skin could have been anything from black to olive green; I couldn't tell in such a low illumination.

I slipped my cloak all the way over me.

The creature, for it was certainly not a man, and unlikely to be an elf of Band's ilk, snorted like a horse, which snuffed out the candle. It was a beast of some description, and its size made it, in my eyes, a hostile threat.

I tried standing silently, but knocked my knee on the table edge, rolling a candle nubbin on the floor where it snicked quietly. The huffing creature's head snapped around, and it snorted inquisitively. My eyes were still accustoming to the gloom, but I could make out the creature was heading straight at me. I retreated as quietly as I could, and the thing stopped where I had just been sitting. It looked furtively around. I saw its eye glinting. Its pointed ears twitched. I noticed that the edges of these ears were ragged, like a dog that had been in many a scrap. The gloomy light cast a deep greenish-grey pall on the creature, and I presumed its skin was a faded green hue. It had spotted Band and Dunafalore sleeping several feet away.

It lurked over to Band. I heard the ringing metallic sound of a sword being withdrawn. I gasped as the creature held its weapon above its head. I noticed it was actually a brutal axe. The bevel caught the moonlight and I saw it was roughened, as if the axe had hewn a thousand trees. It was stained and dulled. The axe quivered as the creature stood, like an executioner, over Band's sleeping body. I made a motion to run forward and knock the lumbering creature off balance, but fear kept my legs locked fast. Terror had stolen my voice, and I mouthed a silent _no_! as the axe came down, aiming straight at Band's neck.

Time froze for the briefest of seconds. My eyes widen in horror. Unable to look away, I caught what would be Band's last moment on this earth. The axe fell for an eternity.

Band's arm flew up through the air, and his large hands gripped the creature's wrist with enough force to snap bone. The creature reactively unclenched his hand, and the axe clattered to the floor, waking a very startled Dunafalore, who scrambled away instinctively.

The creature roared in pain. Band's hand tightened around the wrist of the green thing, tightening enough to make it appear Band was making a fist. The creature recoiled. Band leapt up, and, using the creatures wrist as a pivot, propelled himself over the creature's head in one smooth acrobatic movement. The force of the action forced the creature to flip backwards and land face-first on the ground. The creature was heavy, too heavy for the floor, which groaned horribly. The floor gave way at one end, where the hole to the basement lay, and the horizontal wooden floor began to tilt. It felt as though I were on a boat in choppy seas.

The creature, who had face-planted so painfully upon the floor recovered quickly. Band did not have enough time to withdraw his sword before the creature swiped out with his heavy trunk-like arms, colliding with Band's legs. Band fell down heavily alongside the creature, which heaved its heavy frame gracefully and launched itself upon Band, hands wringing his neck.

'Orc!' Band choked, grabbing frantically at the Orc's wrists. A power battle between the two erupted as Band prised the Orc's strangling hands away from his neck. They began to wrestle; the burly heavy-weight Orc versus the nimble, powerful sleek Night-Elf.

They rolled, arms interlocked along the floor, crashing the chairs and tables out the way. The fracas made the floor shake and warp in strange directions. I feared the wood would not withstand such force upon it. It tilted enough to make the paraphernalia littering the tables and floor roll towards the hold in the basement. The creaking became more apparent.

Band and the Orc threw themselves off each other, allowing them to stand. Band foolishly went for his sword, allowing the Orc to knock him off-balance.

They began raining blows upon each other. The Orc, with its brutish arms, got the upper hand. It was exceedingly agile, and managed to pummel perfectly-placed punches into Band's face.

I had to gather my wits fast. The Orc was stronger than Band, and although Band was nimble enough to avoid the heavier punches, the Orc had a grace and an elegance in its hand-to-hand combat. I needed to intervene, but I knew not how.

The Orc was tiring, I could tell, as it was trying to hit Band harder and knock him out. His punches were therefore slower and more lumbering. Band dodged them easily. The Orc ducked and weaved his massive frame around Band's. Whatever it was, it was a truly excellent fighter. Band was struggling as the Orc overcame him. He managed to throw his arms around the Orc's neck and begin to choke it. He squeezed with all his might, letting loose a battle shout, which roared and echoed throughout the reverberating stone walls. Band summoned his strength, and threw the Orc over his shoulder. The Orc flew several feet, and clattered upon the weakened floor.

Band withdrew his sword, but gravity had taken control of the situation now. The force of the Orc's landing had smashed whatever was still holding the floor aloft. I felt the floor beneath me fall, and take me with it. The entire circular wooden flooring fell with a massive force down into the basement. We all tumbled with it, thrown around like the debris that surrounded us. The basement was filled with large wooden barrels, and the timbers of the floor smashed to smithereens on contact with the superior wooden barrels. I collapsed in a heap and felt heavy rotting planks attack me from all sides.

Then, silence.

A small shaft of timber slammed into my head, knocking me down into the rubble. I grunted.

I had to heave myself up. Dust blocked my nasal passages and my eyes. I checked my body. Nothing broken. Nothing painful, except the throbbing in my head. Prising my eyes open, I saw that we had fallen a good ten feet. I looked at the floorless room above me. The floor had collapsed near-perfectly, leaving a foot thick brown rim circumference around the stone walls, separating the ground floor from the basement. The circular floor itself was now nothing but splinters and ragged planks, littering the winery of the basement.

I managed to stand, rubbing my sore, slightly bleeding temple. I had to scramble up one of the giant sideways-lying barrels to assess the situation.

I saw Band and the Orc, both injured but standing, facing off to each other. They were breathing heavily. Band did not have his sword on him. It must have flown loose when we fell. I reached down by my sides; my two daggers were still sheathed, ready for action. If I wanted to, I could have leapt off the barrel I was standing on and stab the unawares Orc as he stood squaring off to Band.

I didn't. It did not feel right. It did not feel _honourable_. Besides, my brief hesitation was all that it took for the two warriors to launch at each other again. They sprinted across the split wood planks, directly at each other and launched themselves head first, like two cannonballs, at each other.

The sound of the two bodies colliding was flinchingly gruesome. The plate metal of each one's armour squealed on contact, and the sack-like thud of two bodies ramming at high speed was sickening.

They fell back on the floor, at each other's throats again. The Orc was grunting in a thick, deep language I could not understand, and Band was spewing forth Elvish exclamations.

They were standing again. It was complete deadlock. Both warriors were worn, and incapable of soliciting much damage upon each other. Both had their arms around the other's necks, but did not have the strength to squeeze the life out of each other. Right now, they looked like two schoolchildren in an ungraceful scrap. Even the Orc had lost his fighter's sense of elegance.

Now was the time to intervene. I stole up to the pair of fighters, positioning myself behind them. I withdrew both daggers, and, with as much speed and precision as I could, swiftly circled my arms around the Orc, holding both blades against its neck, with enough pressure to freeze it, but not enough to draw blood. The Orc relented, and released his iron grip of Band's neck. Band fell back, gasping. The Orc's muscular features relaxed and it grunted with disdain, whispering something to itself in a phlegmatic, guttural language.

I held my grip.

'Do not move.' A voice called, from above.

We all looked up. I saw another creature, not human, nor Elvish, nor Orcish, standing there, holding a large oaken staff, and pointing a short wooden stick at the three of us.

Band squinted. 'A troll,' he muttered, 'speaking human language.'

'I said do not move' the troll repeated, pointing the short wooden wand directly at me.

18


	15. The Argent Plenipotentiary

**Chapter xv**

The four of us remained motionless. In front of me, with both my daggers to his neck, the Orc breathed heavily. Above us, on the ground floor by the now-toppled entrance gate stood the Troll creature. To my left, Band lay sprawled on the floor, also panting and nursing his wrestling injuries.

'Do as he says,' Band ordered.

I carefully loosened my grip, and let the daggers fall to my sides. The Orc, now free, muscled away from me, elbowing me in my stomach. It—_he_, I presumed—huffed and grunted indignantly.

The troll raised his staff in the air, and slammed it on the ground. It suddenly burned bright above the haft, illuminating all around us, like a magnificent bonfire. I could now see our vanquishers in their true light. I was shocked by the mystical ability of the staff to exude burning light without the use of fire, and somewhat entranced by the glowing stave.

The Orc, as I had noticed earlier, was of Band's height, but had a massive bulky build. He had bulging green biceps, which very near burst out his clunky armour. His Elf-like ears were ragged and torn, and one had a burnished gold earring dangling aloof from an enlarged piercing. His green rock-like face, in the light, bore scars that ran so deep, they looked like tremendous valleys steeped in shadow. One eye was a deep hazel colour, and the other was squinted and blood red, where the white sclera should be. There was no pupil. He was a fearsome monster, and had an air of formidable malevolence. His bare shoulders bore fire-branded tattoos, with mysterious eye-like symbols burnt deep into the flesh. The hieroglyphic nature of these tattoos suggested an association with the occult; Michael's encyclopædia had taught me a little about that. Although I had never read anything in it concerning Orcs, or Trolls, or Night-Elves for that matter. I once thought it was a window to the whole world, but these last few weeks had shown me that, barely a day's trip from my lifelong home, there was a universe of knowledge that had been withheld from me.

The Orc's tusk-like canine teeth protruded vertically from within each side of his lip, and stopped at rounded tips, in line with his wide nostrils, which hung over an elongated, and very broad, philtrum. The tusks were a brilliant white, whiter than mine own teeth, but were heavily chipped, as if they had sustained several blows from sharp objects. The rest of his teeth were yellowed and decayed, giving the green warrior a grizzled appearance.

The Troll was greatest illuminated, being as he was so close to the source of the light. Like the Orc, he had tusks as well, but in the Troll's case they were his maxillary canine teeth, and protruded outwards from the roof of his mouth, curling upwards in a scimitar-like shape, like a boar's. They were hardened-looking and yellow, like old candle wax. His skin, also, was of a pale bluish tinge, although it looked weathered. The Troll was clearly of great age, as he had a single white tuft of hair tied down into a ponytail. Unlike the Orc, which was completely hairless. The Troll bore no armour, as he was wearing woven robes. Once they might have been a brilliant silky purple, but now they were ragged brown, stained with a month of dirt and rough-living. They fluttered in the night breeze. The Troll's arm remained sturdy and fixed upon me. I was clearly the greatest threat. The wand in his hand, at first, looked like a short, pathetic stick of wood, akin to something one would throw a dog to fetch. In the light now, I could see a ghostly aura surrounding it, and a swirling radiance, similar to the strange balls of electricity the Murloc Oracles conjured between their hands. I was aware that this pointy stick could cause a lot more damage than an angry Murloc.

'_Echuta yudo. Wassa_' the Troll said, with a raspy, aged voice, motioning the Orc with his wand hand. The Orc complied and ambled over, hunched and angry-looking. The troll focused his attention back to Band and me, waving the wand between the two of us.

'Excuse my bellicose friend,' the Troll said, 'he is an eternal tribulation to my travels, yet he provides a very visible sign for any traveller to keep their distance.'

'You speak the common tongue, and eloquently,' Band said.

'Yet you still condescend with your tone,' the Troll said, dishevelled.

'I apologise,' Band continued, 'but I have yet to meet a Troll that can raise above the low common language.'

'I am flattered to be your first,' the Troll continued, 'I do not suppose you let many of these low common speaking trolls live?'

'That is correct,' Band said.

'Then you are affiliated with the Alliance?'

'That is also true.'

'Would you kill me, given the chance?' The Troll asked, philosophically.

'I have grown to believe that no treacherous Horde deserves life.'

'Ah, but I am no treacherous Horde!' The Troll said.

'Then who are you allied with?'

'Whereas I have sympathy for the cause of all Horde, I am required to remain neutral due to my status upon the Plenipotentiary Council of the Argent Dawn' The Troll said, taking out a large golden badge from under his robes. It was embossed with a silver circle, with striking ridges emanating from the centre, making it look like a silver sun. The troll affixed the badge to his robes, where it gleamed proudly.

'Argent Dawn affiliates have no business in this part of the world,' Band said suspiciously, 'what is your reason for being here?'

'You presume I am a thief?' The Troll glared back, clutching the badge as if its honour were at stake.

'I simply want to know why an Orc and a Troll sneak into our lodgings, in the dead of night, and attempt to kill me.'

'Allow me to explain,' the Troll said, and he leapt down into the basement, between us. As he landed, all the debris beneath his feet cleared out the way, as if a mighty gust of wind had blown them. The troll put away the wand in one of the many crannies in his robes, and ushered the Orc, who brought over the only unbroken chair that had littered the basement. The Troll sat down.

'My name,' he declared, 'is Sen'Atal. I am a direct heir of Sen'Jin, the father of all the Darkspear Trolls, although over many years, my name has been reduced by the common tongue to Sena.' He waved his arm across his body, indicating Band and I. 'You may call me Sena.'

The Orc, who was eyeing me suspiciously with his regular eye sniffed and wiped his nose. '_Rholorrgh!' _He grunted, and thumped his chest.

Sena indicated the Orc. 'This is my personal bodyguard. Rolore, is his name, yet in the common tongue it is pronounced _Rho-low-ray. _I call him _Rho-lore_, and you should too.'

Sena was playing with his ignited staff, making the shadows in the basement dance, and seemed completely at ease, whilst Band and I held stiff.

'He is a fairly indurate fellow, but has provided me ample protection, nonetheless.' Sena looked directly at Rolore as he spoke, and Rolore talked back in his Orcish language. He then turned to Band and I again. 'I am the mouthpiece for the Argent Dawn in Kalimdor, on a diplomatic mission to meet the council of the Cenarion Circle, in the land of Silithus.'

All these names and places were a complete mystery to me. Band's expression did not change. Perhaps he was as confused as I.

'Why,' Band began, 'would the Argent Dawn need council with the Cenarion Circle? There are no deals you can make, no resources you can share.'

'That, Night-Elf, is incorrect,' Sena hissed, twirling his staff, drawing a grotesque, contorted silhouette of his figure against the giant barrels behind him. 'The Argent Dawn is always in need of new knowledge to defeat the ever-present Scourge.'

'Yet the Cenarion Circle are peace-loving folk,' Band interjected, and was quickly interrupted by Sena once again.

'Still they cut swathes through hostile territory with their military tactics. Face it, Night-Elf—'

'My name is Band.'

'Band, then: What an apt name for a warrior!'

'My father thought so.'

'Very well. I presume you have yet to savour the delights of Silithus?' Sena asked, shifting his face into a curious frown.

'I have never visited Silithus,' Band said.

'Then you will not know of its desolation. Endless sand, beasts, hives, insects and arachnids. Sandcrawlers that can devour something of your size in seconds. Dangerous creatures that burrow, and pits that reek of the remains of hardy travellers. In the face of such hostility, how is it that the Cenarion Circle have established such a thriving base in such infestation?'

Band thought a moment. 'You have a point, Sena Darkspear.'

'Please, remove the formalities,' Sena said, 'I am no more Darkspear than Zandalari.' He paused. 'Or Sandfury.'

'Very well,' Band said, although Sena and I both noted Band's reaction at the mention of Sandfury, 'although nothing you have said explains what you are doing in this forsaken swamp in the heart of Dustwallow.'

Sena laughed, 'it is a tragic accident that has deflected my destiny at a tangent that intersects with yours.'

'I do not understand,' Band said.

'Our Wyvern rider was drunk—the Pinot Noir grape can be such a perceptive trickster—and flew too low over the Dustwallow treetops,' continued Sena. 'Apparently, low-flying Wind Riders have made for great sport for the exiled Stonemaul ogres that hide in the low mountain rises at the edge of this desperate, forsaken territory.'

I could tell what was going to come next.

'We encountered a hail of crude ogre arrows and sling shot. A small rock, thrown with great force, struck the drunken rider on the head, knocking him clean off. The wyvern, in panic, crash landed in the trees, throwing us in the middle of the swamp, before flying into the horizon. We have been lost for five days now. After stumbling upon the body of the rider twice now, I have established the theory that we have been walking in circles as fact.'

'That is an interesting story,' Band said, deadly serious, 'yet that does little to explain why you creep up on sleeping targets and try to kill them.'

Sena and Rolore remained motionless. Rolore appeared to have a head cold, as he kept grunting and snuffling, constantly wiping his nostrils.

'We are hungry,' Sena continued, 'and this desolate place has little in the way of food that does not fight back.'

'You planned to eat us?' Band said.

'No,' Sena replied in a matter-of-fact voice, 'just you. We did not see the rogue hiding in the shadows.' Sena turned to me. 'Do not think, young thief-in-the-night, that you can pull your disappearing stunt again! Once revealed, you remain in my sight at all times.'

'He is no rogue,' Band interrupted, 'he is merely here to gain travelled experience and provide accompaniment to me on my travels.'

'You say you are part of the alliance,' Sena said inquisitively, 'yet you are here on a personal pursuit, clearly, as the armies of Stormwind have no need to defend this place. Even if they did, a single Night-Elf and his invisible accomplice will hardly provide enough protection for the many acres and leagues this swamp sprawls.'

'You are wise, Sena' Band said, bowing (perhaps mockingly? I was unsure) 'and it is true that I am on extended leave from the forces of Theramore, the closest Alliance garrison here. I am, in fact, in pursuit of a band of travelling priests. They have some thing of great importance to me, and I intend to bargain for it.' He stood up and motioned me to do the same. 'Now, in light of the fact that you tried to have me killed for sustenance, I am willing to forgo any hostility I have towards you, particularly as I am bound to protect and aid all members of the Argent Dawn. I expect you to extend me the same courtesy. Had you approached cautiously, and stated friend before striking distance, perhaps we would have shared our food with you, for we have packed plenty.'

'I may not be an enemy to the Darnassian Elves,' Sena said, 'but I still regard all Alliance with deep suspicion. I do not doubt that you would have struck the first blow if my bodyguard or I had ever made our presence known.'

'You needed only to show your Token of the Argent Dawn for us to lay down our arms.'

'The symbol of the Argent Dawn does not guarantee protection from spies and traitors,' Sena said, his eyes squinting deep, as if he was remembering some past event with disdain. 'There is nothing honourable with murdering a creature in its sleep, but we are lost and in desperation. If we but find our way to the Barrens—'

'We're heading towards the Barrens!' I said, a little too enthusiastically. Band scowled at me.

'Excellent,' Sena said, 'we shall leave at first light.'

'Excuse my accomplice,' Band said indignantly, 'but I feel it would not be beneficial if we travel together.' His words were greeted with silence. 'We will be leaving now, and you and your Orc can rest here. When you leave at first light, head directly East, turning towards the sun when it is at its highest. There should be a passage to the Barrens before you.'

Sena smiled, drawing his lips taut over his large tusks. 'Very well. I must warn you that there is a high probability that our paths will cross again in the immediate future.'

Band looked at Sena cynically, unable to decipher the cryptic message he had just delivered. He gracefully leapt onto a large unbroken cask, and used it as a base to pounce up onto the ground level. I clambered up onto the cask, and Band heaved me up. The Orc and the Troll had immediately gone about their own business, ignoring us two, and started removing the broken wood from the floor, clearing a space for them to sleep.

Band and I headed outside. The wind had picked up, and the marshy forest was filled with whistling and whipping sounds. Band sang in his own language, and Dunafalore emerged from the shadows.

'What do you think he meant?' I asked. 'About our paths crossing again?'

Before Band could answer, the darkened tree silhouettes in the distance rustled. We could hear the faint sounds of drumming and a low growling.

'He was absolutely right.' Band said. 'We need to head back inside.' He lead Dunafalore and I back to the ramparts of the ruined Lost Point tower, where we hid behind the low perimeter wall and looked over towards the trees.

The drumming became louder, and the silhouettes of the trees began to dance as torchlight blazed over the horizon.

'What are they?' I asked.

'I do not know,' Band said, 'but they sound like they are on the war path.'

We headed back to the entrance of the tower. Sena and Rolore were looking up at us, smiling placidly. They had made four spaces for sleeping amongst the giant wooden casks.

'Welcome back,' Sena said, as the torch-wielding creatures beyond the treeline burst through. Their anguished, incensed roars echoed terrifyingly through the darkness of Lost Point. Band, Dunafalore and I jumped down without chancing a look behind. Whatever it was that had come through the trees, there were a lot of them.


	16. Rampaging Ogres

**Chapter xvi**

'Ogres,' Sena told us.

We were all huddling in the ruined basement. A crowd of stumbling, gigantic ogres crashed against the walls of the tower like a wave on rocks. They rampaged past; not concentrating on where they were heading.

I saw one through the doorway smash his head with great force against the tower's stone gate-frame. He stumbled backwards, blood pouring from his head, before shaking it violently, roaring, and running along with the rest of the crowd.

'What on Azeroth is going on?' Band demanded.

'They are the reason we are here,' Sena said calmly.

'Did you…did you disturb their village?' I asked.

'That we did so,' he replied, with no emotion his voice.

'You must have really riled them up.' Band said.

'It takes less than you think to rile an ogre,' Sena retorted.

'A whole village?'

'That takes skill,' he replied. 'Now come, we must remain silent until the ogres pass. They will weary themselves with travelling before even one of them thinks to look beyond his own nose. Then they will return to their village, having forgotten why they mobbed in the first place.'

'I do hope you are right,' Band said.

Rolore saw a field mouse skitter along the floor. He stomped on it. The squish disturbed me and I felt quite ill.

'We should sleep,' Sena said. Rolore yawned and shut his eyes. He was snoring within minutes, despite the earthquake-magnitude rumblings of the surrounding ogres above.

Sena too, appeared to drift off into unconsciousness. They were both highly relaxed in the presence of their racial enemies. Band and I sat in silence, conversing with facial expressions. The noise died down. The ogres had travelled to another part of the swamps seeking revenge on criminals they would never find. At least I hoped they would never find, as I was sitting here right next to both of them.

I finally felt sleep overcome me.

A small shaft of sunlight penetrated the basement, and caught me directly in my eyes, which awoke me.

I sat up, and realised I had been sleeping on Rolore, who was snoring soundly. I got up, and stretched my aching body.

What in all of Kalimdor was the Argent Dawn? I asked myself. And why should I trust these strange creatures? I had enough trouble relying on dwarfs, but compared to these things, they seemed as trustworthy as an enlightened paladin.

And why were they going to eat us? I felt uncomfortable as I was so ignorant of these strange races.

Sena awoke next. He turned to me.

'Ah, the invisible human. You seem very visible in the cold light of the morning. Come, sit with me. It is cold.'

I wasn't sure if he wanted me to huddle up with him to stave off the cold, so I sat down near him, but out of reach.

Sena waved his gnarled hand over the floor, and the small twigs, leaves and broken shards of wood that were lying on the floor slid towards them, and formed a maelstrom of kindling under his dancing hand. Sena moved his hand away and the kindling went motionless, staying in a perfectly-formed pile.

Sena snapped his hand back in a pushing-motion, and a spark ignited the kindling. Within seconds, there was a small warm fire ablaze. Sena used his strange powers to summon surrounding small stones and pebbles to form a hearth around the fire to prevent it spreading.

I felt thoroughly warmed and my spirit was lifted. Band and Rolore stirred, but did not wake.

'So tell me about yourself, young rogue,' Sena commanded.

'Well, I come from Theramore Island, which is beyond these swamps,' I said. 'I am not a rogue, although my father was. I am actually a fisherman.'

'A fisherman? There are no fish within a hundred miles.'

'I am not a professional fisherman, although I am an accomplished one. Anyway, I am not here to fish.'

'So why are you here?' Sena asked, inquisitively.

'I am accompanying my friend,' I said.

'The warrior Night-Elf.'

'Yes.'

'And to what end does your means of accompaniment entail?'

'Well, I do not know,' I said honestly. 'I have seen this as a learning experience, although I am quite miserable being away from the comforts that Theramore provides.'

'And how far do you expect to accompany the Night Elf?'

'I do not know that either. It is too late to turn back now, and I do not want to hasten Band's journey. I don't look forward to returning to Theramore, particularly if I have to travel via these accursed swamps again.'

'There are other ways of travelling than on foot and Sabre.' Sena said.

I realised I hadn't seen Dunafalore since before last night. I do hope she was alright.

I wanted to find our about this strange conjurer.

'Tell me about yourself,' I asked the troll.

Sena drew in a deep breath. He seemed happy to recount his entire life story.

'I am in high standing with the Council of the Argent Dawn. Do you know their business?'

'I do not,' I said.

'They are a united people, warring against the tyranny of the Scourge.'

'Who are the Scourge?' I asked.

'Foolish boy!' He remonstrated. 'Do you know nothing of the outside world?'

'I lived a very sheltered life,' I admitted.

'The Scourge are the greatest threat to the security of our homelands – including yours – and they must be eradicated from the face of Azeroth.'

'But who are they?' I asked.

'You will learn, in time.'

We sat in silence for a minute.

'How did you light that fire?' I asked. 'I mean, where do you get your powers?'

'I don't "get" powers, as you so ignorantly posited,' Sena said. 'I merely channel the powers of nature: of fire, of ice and of arcane.'

'Like magic?'

'It gives the appearance of magic,' Sena said. 'However, it is purely harnessing nature. I am a mage, of the magisterial order within the Zandalar and Darkspear tribes.'

None of that made sense to me.

'We are a powerful order, capable of bringing destruction on all that oppose us. A Mage is one of the most powerful beings you will ever encounter.'

'How so?'

'We have power of life over death,' Sena said.

He removed his strange twig-like wand from his robes and waved it a few times. A small mouse, probably related to the one Rolore squashed last night, emerged and sniffed the air, before scurrying over to the wand, in anticipation that it was food.

Sena's eyes narrowed. He flicked the wand and the mouse lifted in the air, as if plucked by invisible hands. It floated, looking dishevelled by no longer being in control of its actions, and looked around timidly.

Sena muttered something, probably in Trollish, and flicked his hand again. I saw and heard every tiny bone in the little mouse's body snap, and the little creature contorted like a marionette. It hung limp.

Sena flicked his hand again, and the mouse vanished with a loud pop and a small plume of grey smoke.

I was shocked, appalled and enraptured by this display. The popping was loud enough to wake Band and Rolore, who sat up, stretched and yawned.

'Come, my friends,' Sena said with a large grin spread across his narrow face, 'we must depart. The ogres would have trampled a clean path for us to walk through. Warrior Band, summon your sabre; we must depart!'

6


	17. The Creative Power of the Magii

**Chapter xvii**

The ogres that steamed through in the night had left a scar of destruction. It was easy traversing the marshes with plenty of felled trees to aid crossing the murky swamp-water.

We had little food left, and I had resigned myself to constantly tightening my belt to stave off the protestations of my stomach. Rolore had resorted to gnawing on a bone. He offered it to Band and I but we declined. Band was thirsty and had resorted to sucking the buttons on his shirt to retain moisture in his mouth.

The morning passed without incident. The unchanging dreary view of the swamps of Dustwallow Marsh became frustratingly tiresome.

Sena and Rolore remained, for the most part, silent, except for the few occasions where they would converse in Troll or Orcish.

Dunafalore, as it turned out, had become tired of waiting in the ruins of the basement with us last night, and had escaped to scamper among the ogres. The dumb creatures had regarded the brilliant white and black-striped creature with suspicion but were smart enough to see her immense claws and hence left her alone, despite their trampling frenzy.

When we exited to face the destruction, Dunafalore had been prowling around, chewing on the sweet reed roots at the edge of the marshes. I had taken a handful of reeds to chew on, but the sweetness of the sap inside could not mask the bitter woody taste of the reed I had to chew in order to get it.

We were lost, of that I was sure. Band retained a silent confidence and spent the morning pointing in the direction he was sure we would take.

Ominously, we passed the skeletons of several figures. Their clothes remained; I was sure there were human, rather than Elf, Troll or Orc remains. One could have been a dwarf, but a sense of fear or sadness overwhelmed me when I realised it also may have been a child. They were carrying backpacks, which we disrespectfully raided. However the contents was only spoiled food. Rolore ate some moulded bread, but later on he started groaning and clutching his stomach.

We stopped for a break. Band climbed a tree, however we were currently in the centre of a deep valley, so the tallest tree could not match the heights of the surrounding forest canopy.

We continued heading east.

This was our situation for the next two nights. We would travel on foot by day, set up camp and drink reed sap. Sena had perfected a way of extracting the sap without having to chew the disgusting reed ends.

The sap tasted good, but was not enough to satisfy my thirst.

On the third night, we found a clearing and sat, exhausted, gazing at the stars. Sena knew the constellations and told us stories of a shattered realm that scattered stars across the ethos. I was sleepy and did not heed it much.

Sena finished his story, and said 'I am thirsty.'

'We all are,' Band said. He had given up sucking the button.

'Why did you not say so?' Sena said. 'I can go many days without water – I sometimes forget that other beings need it more regularly.'

He stood up and thrust the point of his staff on the ground. The ground cracked and water spurted up.

'Give me your canteen, young rogue,' he said, and I took it out of my pack. It had been empty for two days now. Sena took it and held it under the fountain of water. He directed the gushing liquid with his hand, and it flowed beautifully into the canteen. When it was filled and spilling over, he pulled the staff out the ground, and the crack gurgled with water and disappeared. He threw the canteen at me. I took a gasping gulp.

It was the sweetest, coldest, purest water I had ever tasted. I had guzzled nearly half of it when I realised others were thirsty as well. I handed it to Band, who supped at it delicately. It did not take much water to rejuvenate a Night Elf. Band handed it to Rolore, who tipped the remainder down his throat. Sena repeated his conjure water trick and filled everyone's canteens, including his own.

'That is incredible,' I said. 'What else can you do?'

'I am not merely a water vendor, I must warn you,' he said. 'However, I can also conjure a sweet bread.'

I looked at him incredulously. 'Why did you not say so! We have all been famished for days now.'

'I apologise, but I do not notice the habits and behaviours of strange beings!' Sena replied. 'Had I but known you were so hungry, I would have gladly provided.'

Sena stood over the campfire. He raised his staff in the air with one hand, and laid his other hand flat, facing upwards. A wind whipped up around Sena; cold and blustery.

The air filled with small bits that got in my eyes. I squinted and rubbed them. When I could open them again, I saw the bits flow through the air towards Sena's open hand. He closed it into a fist, and the last remaining bits made there way between his fingers.

Seeds! The flying bits were seeds and grain!

Sena had summoned a handful of grains and circled his wand over his closed hand. Light emitted from between the cracks of his fingers.

He unfurled his hand to reveal uncooked dough. He skewered the dough with a stick and thrust it into the fire, where it bloomed and cooked at a rapid pace. After what could only have been a fleeting moment, he removed the dough from the fire, where it had become a large, fully-formed loaf of bread. It was large enough to feed all of us and we feasted on sweet, fluffy bread.

'Stay with me, friends,' Sena said, quite pleased with himself, and you need never go hungry again. I wanted to say thank you, but my mouth was stuffed with the delicious bread. It was rejuvenating and I felt more than alive after finishing it. My taste buds craved more, but I had eaten the lion's share and I did not want to disturb Sena for more.

Perhaps these two sworn enemies were not so bad after all.

I washed down the last of the bread with the refreshing spring water.

That night I slept soundly next to the cozy fire until daybreak. When I woke I felt as refreshed as if I had awoke within my own bed.

5


	18. Lost in the Marshes

Chapter xiii

**Chapter xiii**

'Are we lost?' I asked Band, who had been leading the expedition for four days now.

'I am afraid so,' he replied, almost silently. 'Don't tell the Troll?'

'I won't.' I assured him.

I had the strange feeling that Sena had overheard. His ears were quite large, and he would often react to things I couldn't hear. He would prick up his ears and sniff the air. Rolore would usually join him in sniffing.

Rolore remained, as ever, staunchly detached, content to content himself, and interacted little with anybody, including Sena.

We continued trekking. The ground had become firmer as we travelled in a south-westwardly direction. A path, the remnants of an old well-used route long forgotten, would occasionally rise out of the vegetation.

We decided to travel further into the night, more out of desperation to find somewhere, anywhere, that one of the party would recognise. Alas, as the days dragged on, the notion that we were lost in the barren wastelands of the Dustwallow marshes began to tug uneasily at our consciousness.

Band would rise earlier and earlier each morning; his spirit was flagging like the rest of ours, though he dare not show it. Sena's food supplies kept us going, but the once sweet bread had quickly become bland and gruelling to consume.

On a more positive note, the dense foliage began to thin, and streaks of sunlight permeated the gloom. The ground ceased to be damp, green sludge, and the light allowed healthy grass to emerge in patches. Unfortunately, weeds and nettles did too. My legs began to redden with the blisters of a thousand nettle stings. It even began to affect Rolore, who would show aggressive irritation that his thick brownish-green skin had begun to welt. Nature can pierce even the thickest membrane it seemed.

The day after, the trees thinned out enough to see large squares of sky. Band's mood had brightened; he was able to see the stars again.

We camped in a clearing, chosen by Band, who waited for the stars to emerge so he could get his bearings. A nearby swamp, which was not as murky as most we had passed in this forgotten land, was frothing with activity. A colony of crocolisks occupied it. Though they dared not stray far from the water's edge, we kept a lookout from our camp at all times, some seventy feet away.

A large thundercloud obscured the sky this night, and we built bivouacs out of stray branches and reeds. The shelter was enough to keep the rain off, but the humidity of the swamps was intensified as we lay sweating inside. I thought the terrible stench of old sweat was Rolore, as he was the grubbiest of the party. Once he went outside to relieve himself, the smell stayed. I realised it was me emanating that nauseating funk. I needed a bath. The elements had browned my clothing, and I felt uncomfortable.

We stayed at the camp the next day, hoping wildly for a clearer night. Thankfully, it came. As the sky blackened, the stars began to shine bright. Band read them with consummate ease.

'I am unfamiliar with these heavenly bodies,' he said. 'I fear we are greatly off course.'

He drew a map of the stars in the dirt, and then a second one of the star alignment he knew. Sena observed.

'You draw the stars of the deepest winter,' Sena mused thoughtfully. 'By summer, the stars should look more like this.' He drew his own astronomic blueprint.

'Of course,' Band said. He aligned Sena's drawings with his own. 'I should be able to calculate where we are now.'

I had no understanding how an elf managed this. It was very complex geometrics the pair employed.

Band removed a rolled map of Dustwallow Marsh from his pack. We had not used the map for weeks, primarily because the majority of it was unfilled; an entire country documented by sparse landmarks, none of which we had come across.

After several minutes calculating, band used the point of a knife and plunged it into the Dustwallow Map.

'We are here,' he said triumphantly. 'A little off course, but otherwise on track!'

I noticed the knife point was quite close to the west edge of the map.

'How far is a little off course?' I enquired.

'Oh, merely sixty or so,' Band dismissed.

Sixty miles! I thought dejectedly; that's far more than 'a little'.

'We should move on,' Sena suggested. 'The crocolisks' suspiciousness is making them tread ever closer.'

We set out, in the dead of night, in the right direction. The clearing quickly gave way to dense forest, and the sky was once again blocked by the treetops.

I spent the entire night following behind Sena. My eyes glued to the back of his legs as I trudged along, wishing that wherever we were heading to, we'd get there fast.

As the sun set on another day's travelling, Rolore suddenly began to grunt and speak in his booming Orcish.

He was pointing wildly into the distance.

'What is he pointing at?' I asked Sena.

Rolore tried explaining to me, but all I heard was excitable grunting. The language barrier clearly frustrated him.

'He says it's an encampment over there,' Sena said.

I followed the line of Rolore's excited pointing. He was pointing at a star.

'It's just a star on the horizon, I told him,' Sena said. 'But he won't listen.'

'Wait,' Band said, scrutinising the faraway star. 'That star shouldn't be there. There's no constellation that fits with that star.'

'Then what is it?' Sena asked.

'It must be an encampment,' Band replied.

'What, in the sky?' I said bemused. I looked harder.

'No, there must be a hill there, or a mountain. We simply cannot see it because it's dark.' Band said. 'We should stop here for the night. We cannot light a fire; this is hostile territory. We must remain inconspicuous.'

And so we camped in darkness. The cover of the trees was no longer there to shelter us. I was happy that I was not going to be sleeping in asphyxiating mugginess for once, but that quickly turned sour, as the cold night air began to pervade my now-shivering body.

I woke up as the sun was rising. During the night I must have snuggled up to the warm body of Rolore and I was greeted by his foul-smelling armpit covering my face. I gagged and leapt up swiftly, waking the rest of the party.

Sure enough, in the direction of the supposed encampment, a large range of foothills rose out from the trees. We could not make out any life on these serene hills. Band's superior eyesight allowed him to see the location of the site, but he could not make out any pertinent details, other than that there was a clearing there, with the smouldering remnants of a fire smoking gently.

We headed off to the foothills.

'These hills make way for the mountains that mark the borders of Dustwallow,' Band said. 'Beyond lies the Gold Road. I'll wager the travelling priests will be heading towards there.'

Of course! I remembered. The travelling priests. I wondered if they were able to navigate this harsh land better than we four. I hope they still had the necklace.

'What is the Gold Road?' I asked.

'It is a trade route; the spine of Kalimdor,' Sena explained. 'It links the great cities of the continent on a single route from the north to the south. It runs a good half way of the continent. There should be services there, that we may barter for faster travel than foot.'

'Though it comes at a price,' Band remarked, 'particularly as it is predominantly Horde trade. Anyway, we must get to it first. All we have to do is find the pass between the mountains of Dustwallow. The encampment will hopefully give us a clue as to where that is.'

We marched with renewed vigour. Finally, we had a visible goal; the encampment. As we drew closer, the foothills began to loom. They seemed as large as mountains, but were green and wooded all the way to their peak. The forest covered the hills like lichen on a rock.

We never took our eyes off the location of the camp. It would mean fighting through dense shrubbery and steep climbs to reach it.

Between the shoulders of these great hills, dark, brown mountains loomed beyond, more massive than any landscape I had ever imagined. The mountains touched the sky, and disappeared beyond thick grey cloud.

Once we had set foot on the hills themselves, the mountains beyond obscured by the tall, narrow trees and their thick canopies. Instantly, the incline steepened. My already wary-legs complained deeper, and I began to use the narrow tree boughs to hoist myself along. From time to time, Sena and Rolore would lose their footing. Band, who was light as a dandelion seed, did not suffer from this problem.

Curiously, neither did I.

'You have superb balance,' Sena remarked, just before his footing gave way again, and he fell cursing onto his front. I did not realise how deft in movement I was. Perhaps I was indeed of a similar ilk to my father. This lightened me somewhat, and I was able to navigate the steepened ground.

'We must be getting close,' I remarked. We had lost sight of the encampment position as we reached the foot of the hills, and had resorted to estimating the distance we had travelled.

I failed to take into account the fact that we could no longer simply travel in a straight line, and were zig-zagging our way up the slope. We had come across several inscalable rock walls on our travel upwards, and had resorted to having to go far out of our way to overcome them.

It had begun to get dark, and we were looking for a suitable place to camp (again without use of a campfire) when we heard voices in the distance. They were human voices, arguing amongst themselves. I could hear the accents of brigands, mixed with the eloquent tongue of the citizens of Theramore (who spoke with a highly clipped, breathy quality).

As we edged closer, we heard them arguing over grog.

'Ye've watered it down, yer mangy scabrous felon!' one roaring voice boomed.

'Ey! Calm down, calm down!' a squeakier voice protested. 'It's just we've, eh, run a bit low on th' rum.'

We sneaked closer, to the edge of the clearing, and peered through the leaves.

In the midst of the clearing lay three tents, a campfire, a heap of crates, stacked haphazardly, and several barrels. Three men: a burly pirate (presumably the one with the deep voice), a scrawny brigand (presumably with the squeaky voice), and a third, silent scallywag sat around the fire. A washing line also strung across the clearing from the post of one tent, to the tree where we four were snooping from. Amongst the items pegged on the line, I recognised the tattered clothing of Theramore sentry guards.

'Deserters!' Band whispered, eyes narrowing.

I instantly knew what he meant; Barbary brigands would occasionally visit the port and attempt to spread dissent amongst the troops. It was their plan to weaken the garrison from within, by encouraging younger soldiers and guards to desert their posts and join the pirates. With the inefficient Garran Vimes at the helm, they were more successful than the people of Theramore were comfortable with.

'What do we do?' I asked.

'We must kill them,' Band said through gritted teeth.

'Why?' I asked. 'What have they done?'

Band nodded towards the far end of the clearing. The firelight illuminated the harrowing sight: several Theramore soldiers' mutilated bodies lay strewn over each other. Their uniforms were tattered and bloodstained.

I gasped. 'Why would they--'

'They ambush Dustwallow patrols where they can,' Band whispered harshly; hatred coursing through him. 'Once captured, they force the soldiers to join them. Those who refuse are murdered in cold blood. There are few who renounce their allegiance to Theramore, which makes these men mass murderers.'

I saw one of the soldiers lay with an axe still buried in between his shoulders. The sight made me ill, and angry.

The deep-voiced Barbary pirate belched loudly.

'Grog,' he muttered. 'Filthy dish water, more like.' he lifted his tankard and tried to swipe it at the weedy-voiced brigand, who ducked and cowered. The burly pirate lobbed the wooden tankard over at the pile of dead soldiers. It bounced off the skull of one, making a hollow _thock_ sound. The pirates laughed. Anger and frustration welled up inside me. I could see the same with Band. He looked ready to spring out and charge right at the three.

Before he could do so, a hand clamped on his shoulder, holding him down. We turned around.

It was the hand of Rolore. He was firmly, but tenderly holding Band back. He shook his head solemnly, and muttered something in hushed tones.

Band bit down on his lower lip. He realised that Rolore was right; the only way to deal with this was to lead with a cool temperament, rather than a fiery heart. Band couldn't risk everyone's safety with his hotheadedness.

Sena stood behind the pair of them and nodded sagely. A plan was needed. A plan to slay these savage buccaneers.

4


	19. The Brigand's Camp

**Chapter xix**

An argument in hushed tones ensued. Band wanted to kill the brigands who had been slaughtering the Theramore soldiers. Rolore and Sena did not care for his plight and wanted to move on. ('Move on where?' Band asked). I did not particularly want much bloodshed. It was hard to debate when we were within earshot, and each of us would check over at the three men drinking grog and stumbling about.

In the end we decided the best course of action was to capture one or more of them and force them to lead us out of the endless marshes. Even though we were close to the borders of Dustwallow, there were still many miles of mountainous terrain to pick our way through, and we needed to find the road that lead to the Barrens.

'They must know where the Shady Rest Inn lies,' Band said. I did not know what the Shady Rest Inn was, apart from the fact it was an inn. What an inn was doing in this desolate wasteland of sludge and forestry was beyond me.

'Then we shall force them to take us there,' Sena said.

'You do not advocate death?' Band said, threatening to reignite the debate.

'I advocate naught but apathy towards these creatures. You can kill them if you like, but I would prefer extracting information.'

Band gritted his teeth. 'So be it.'

He turned towards me. I had stayed quiet during the debate, as did Rolore who could apparently had trouble communicate quietly anyway, which was a blessing.

'I want you to go and sap that silent one over there,' Band pointed, 'he seems to be the most level-headed and hopefully most communicative one.'

I was about to suggest that he had barely spoken at all, but instead I asked: 'what do you mean by _sap_?'

Band slid my dagger from the sheath on my hip. He made a cup with his left hand, and slammed the knife hilt-first into it.

'Do that on the back of his head, right _here_,' Band motioned and pointed at the nape of my neck. 'Hit him there hard enough, and it should knock him unconscious for a few minutes whilst we deal with the squeaky pirate and his brawny friend.'

I took the knife and did some practice motions.

'Good, like that,' he said. 'Except try to hit just above where the shoulder blades meet. Too high, and you might kill him. If that happens, we'll have to change our plan slightly.'

Nervously, I slid my cloak over me. Band smiled at the sight of me blending perfectly into the surroundings, except for my head. I tried shifting the cloak so only my eyes remained.

'Remember, hit as hard as possible. It should not make too much sound.' He patted my back, and firmly launched me into the opening.

I waited for the two other brigands to leave the campsite towards the road that led out. When they were a safe distance away, I sneaked along the washing line, walking on the outsides of my feet to eliminate as much noise as possible.

I had to clamp my jaw shut to prevent the sound of teeth chattering.

Slowly I crept along. The washing on the line provided some cover, and my cloak provided the rest.

I already had my escape route planned. The minute my presence was noticed, I'd drop like a stone under my cloak and hope the other three come to my rescue. It was a plan with several glaring flaws, all of which would result in my untimely death.

Step by step, I approached the centre of the campsite. There were several tents and crates around. Most had 'Steamwheedle Cartel' branded upon them. One had 'Venture Co. Mining Company.'

I used the crates to cover me as I flanked the quiet brigand. He was staring peacefully into the distance. He was not blinking. A fear welled up inside me. He looked like a cat ready to spring. I could tell he was tensed and prepared. Had he seen us? Was he expecting an ambush? I stopped creeping, indecisive. What if he suddenly leapt on me as I snuck up on him? I turned my face to the trees. I saw Band's face poke out. He was motioning me to move, despite the fact I was sure he couldn't see me. I took one hand out from under the cloak and made a 'no' motion with it. He replied with a violent nodding.

I had to think fast. The two drunken brigands were beginning to head back. The small, weedy brigand had stooped to pick up his dropped tankard. The fat one kicked him playfully, knocking him over. He laughed. The humiliated one squeaked anger. Still the quiet brigand did not stir.

I was close enough to him now to see the tendons on his neck. They were strained. He was preparing for something, but what? Me? I had to plough on, or I'd lose my window of opportunity. That would leave me standing like a stuck pig in the centre of a campsite occupied with three men who would not think twice of killing me. I had to make my move. Now.

One step behind him. I paused, waiting for him to spring. He didn't. I grabbed my dagger and held it firm. I raised the butt above his neck. My arm tightened.

He sniffed the air. His head began to turn.

I slammed the knife down as hard as I could, pretending I was trying to crack a recalcitrant nut shell. The wooden hilt made a deep _thunk_ in the back of his neck, just as the man was turning his head.

The brigand froze, with his head at a jarring angle. There was a prolonged silent pause. I wondered if he even noticed, as he seemed just as still as before.

Then he slowly teetered forward, and collapsed in a pile with his head twisted awkwardly.

Had I killed him? He seemed quite lifeless. I could not tell if he was breathing even when he was sitting there.

The raised voices of the two mismatched brigands alerted me to their incoming presence.

I had to drag the limp body away from the campfire and behind the pile of contraband crates. The still man groaned lightly as I heaved him over the scratchy stones around the campfire. So he was alive, it seems. I had not yet taken a human life.

I was rooted to the spot and peered from behind the crates to watch the action unfold.

The two pirates reached the campsite. The fat one scratched his head. 'Where's Illoth?' he belched.

The scrawny one did not seem particularly perturbed by Illoth's disappearance. 'Lazy oik's probably gone to bed.' He began kicking at the tent. 'Oi, oi, gittup!' He called at Illoth's empty tent. Of course, there was no stirring or reply.

The scrawny pirate would not ever find out what became of Illoth, because at that moment, a strange metal point shot out of his chest. He hiccoughed, and looked down, puzzled at this length of sharp metal protruding from his torso.

He slowly moved his hand to touch the strange intruder, but it receded quickly, making a very wet _shunk_ sound. The galvanised face of Band, his furious eyes glowing in the reflection of the campfire, emerged from behind the wavering pirate.

The scrawny brigand, with confusion burning in his eyes, fell to his knees, and then face first onto the fire. The impact of his head on the campfire sent a cloud of burning embers floating idly into the air.

The large, burly pirate had quickly got his grog-addled wits together, and had drawn his cutlass. As the squeaky pirate fell, the brawny one lunged at the appearance of Band, who deflected the cutlass blow with his sword. The sheer weight the burly one placed upon his thrust was enough to knock Band to the floor.

Band landed heavily on his side, knocking the wind out of him. He rolled onto his back to see the heavy man leap upon him, cutlass held firmly pointing downwards towards Band's face. Band dodged and saw the blade sink harmlessly into the ground.

The weight of the pirate landed squarely on his solar plexus, making Band gasp painfully. He quickly used his body as a counterweight to launch the fat brigand through the air. The man flew over Band's head, and crumpled several feet away.

They both lay on the floor, panting. Band was heavily winded, and struggled to draw breath. The pirate, who was less damaged by the throw, was on his feet first. He tugged the dulled blade of his cutlass out of the ground, where it had sunk nearly to the hilt. I dreaded to picture the consequence if Band's head had been there.

Band was able to recover his sword arm to defend the blows the fat buccaneer rained down upon him.

I would have thought the fat man's size would prove somewhat of a burden, but he was surprisingly nimble. Band could barely keep up with each parry and thrust. Suddenly, the pirate's blade sliced deep into Band's arm, hewing the thick armour at its weakest spot.

Band howled in pain, much like a wolf would howl mournfully at the moon. The pirate retreated the blade, which was sunk quite deep into the armour and flesh. It sickeningly heaved out, bloodied. Band had lost the use of his sword arm, and quickly used his weaker left to take the reins of defence.

The brigand raised his cutlass above his head. He knew he had the upper hand, and this blow could have done some serious damage to the Night Elf, if not kill him. Band wasn't finished yet, however, and used his legs to wrest the hulking human off his crushed frame.

The pirate staggered back, still aiming his blade. He brought it down on to the weakened Band.

The dulled edge suddenly froze. A layer of ice consumed the entire cutlass. The icy handle burned the man's hand and forced him to drop it. The sword clattered harmlessly on the ground, where the covering of ice shattered into a thousand shards, each tinkling like smashed crystal.

The pirate stared incredulously at the blade, especially as Band's blood on the blade was now solidified and crystallised. It speckled the surrounding clear white ice fragments with blazing red shards.

The distraction was enough for Band to escape his predicament. He kicked out his strong legs in a broad sweeping motion, and kicked the man squarely in the groin.

'Y'argh!' cried the pirate, as the blow knocked the wind out of him.

Still cowering in my position, I saw where the source of the ice had come from. Sena, standing some fifteen yards away, had conjured some kind of ice weapon, which hit the brigand's sword, incapacitating him. Sena was calmly moving towards the fighting pair.

Band swung his sword feebly at the winded pirate. It clattered sideways against the man's arm, knocking him sideways. Band, severely weakened, dropped the sword as it rebounded off the man's frame.

The two began a fist fight, and managed to get in several meaty thumps in each others' faces. Band's weaker arm punches were enough to draw blood, which oozed from under the bushy brow of the brawny brigand. He was still nimble enough to avoid the more forceful punches, but had a deeply cut lip.

As the two tangled, Sena stood calmly between them, roughly five yards away. I watched as the troll lifted his arms to the skies, and incanted in a deep, yet quiet voice.

As he did so, the ground underneath the brawling pair began to shake. It was violent enough to stop them from punching each other, and they took a pace back from each other, confused by this curiously located earthquake.

Suddenly, great icy shards erupted from the ground, around the pair's feet. They bloomed out of the grass vigorously, turning all around to gleaming ice. Like massive stalagmites thrust through the outer layers of earth, they entrenched the pair in a prison of teeth-like ice shards

'I--I'm stuck!' the pirate called.

Band himself cursed in his native tongue. Each ice shard was like a giant spike, and the points glinted in the firelight. They looked sharp enough to rend a man in twain. I saw that the points of several shards were dug deep into the legs of the pair. The brigand had bared legs, and the ice had lacerated them terribly. He was grimacing in pain.

The pair tried breaking free from their icy prisons, which only caused further injury. Eventually, they relented and stood perfectly still, afraid of being sliced to pieces by the razor-like ice.

Sena stood calmly aside, and allowed Rolore through. He stood facing the pirate, who stood petrified and impotent. Rolore roared a war-cry in his face; the spittle flew from his yellowed teeth, and covered the face of the hapless man.

With one quick motion, Rolore pulled out a large mace from his belt. The head of the club was equal size to the head of the pirate.

Rolore swung hard, and I had to avert my gaze as the weapon thudded sickeningly into the brigand's face. The dull, blunt sound of hammer on bone made me feel queasy, and as I looked away, my eyes were drawn to the first dead pirate, whose hair had caught on fire, and was spreading to his clothes.

It was, on the whole, not a pleasant sight.

I looked back at the grisly scene to see the hefty pirate collapse onto the spiked ice shards, skewering him like fruit on a needle. He was dead. I dared not look at his face; I could barely imagine the horror of the result of its contact with a large lump of heavy metal, swung at force.

Sena raised his arms once again to the skies, and the ice shards obliterated, freeing Band and making the frame of the dead pirate drop heavily on the icy floor.

Band grasped painfully at his injured arm, and slumped on to the floor.

I was about to go help him, when I realised the dazed brigand lying next to me was coming to. I quickly removed the cutlass from his belt, and threw it out of harm's way.

Sena and Rolore, ignoring Band, came over to me. They ignored me as well, and Rolore picked up the recovering brigand by the scruff of his neck.

I hurried over to Band, who asked me to search for some bandages in his pack, over by the edge of the clearing.

I dutifully did so. Inside were prefabricated tourniquets made of shimmering, silky material I had never seen before. Wound within the material were sweet smelling herbs and spices; to aid recovery, I assumed.

'What is this?' I asked Band as I handed him the soft tourniquet.

'It is mageweave,' he said, grimacing. 'Very pliable material; helps with healing. Here, help me off with these shoulder pads.'

I did so, which allowed Band to loosen the loose-linked chain mail shirt underneath. The mail had been hewn near the forearm and looked quite useless now. The white shirt underneath was ripped and tangled, and blooming with dark blood. Band ripped off the arm of the shirt in one neat manoeuvre.

His arm had a large cleft bit neatly out of it, like a tree-feller's axe. It was particularly grisly, and made my stomach turn.

'Fortunately this did not happen to you,' Band said, as he wound the material around, binding his arm tightly. No blood escaped the tourniquet. 'It would take many weeks for this kind of injury to heal in humans.'

I _was_ glad it wasn't me.

Band delicately replaced his armour. The tourniquet must have done wonders, as he no longer seemed in pain. Although he did not use his wounded arm when repacking his satchel.

Sena and Rolore threw down the captured brigand at our feet. They had bound his hands and feet, and gagged him. He landed painfully and groaned under the gag.

'He is all yours,' Sena said. 'Use him to get us out of here.'

Band ripped the cloth off the man's mouth. 'Take us to the Shady Rest Inn'

'Or what?' The brigand spat.

Band grabbed him by the chin, and thrust his face in the direction of the two dead brigands. The scrawny pirate was completely ablaze, and the fat pirate lay on the floor, ripped virtually apart by the icy shards.

'Or you will join your friends, and your passing will not be nearly as comfortable as theirs.'

The brigand gulped hard, and conceded.


	20. The Road to the Inn

**Chapter xx**

I don't particularly want to elaborate on the torrid journey to the borders of Dustwallow. It took well over a day. I'd like to say the thinning forest and firmer ground put me in higher spirits, but our prisoner was quick to dampen them at every given opportunity.

As the night passed, I was under the impression that the brigand had an extremely limited vocabulary that consisted mainly of curses and obscenities. He began to spit on those around him, but quickly stopped when a bead of phlegm landed on Sena's robe.

Sena, being naturally outraged, appeared not to react. Suddenly he stamped his staff into the earth, which made the ground crumble beneath the brigand. He fell several feet and landed on buried rocks, rather painfully.

Rolore dragged him out, and he calmed down after that. He ended up latching onto me, being the only other human in the group.

It was dawn before he actually spoke without muttering and cursing. With the rest of the group several paces behind us, he whispered to me:

'Let me out of these shackles.'

'No,' I quickly replied. I noticed the chains that bound his feet had made deep red lacerations in his wrists and ankles. This was, in most part, down to him constantly--and futilely--struggling against them.

'What are you doing with a Night-Elf, a Troll and an Orc, anyway?' He asked. His voice was gentler and quite well-spoken, which betrayed his former life, before he became a brigand.

'I couldn't really tell you, I'm afraid,' I said, honestly. It did seem bizarre; three races with a loathing of each other, seemingly in a well-regimented troupe.

'I mean, the Horde?' He questioned. 'Why haven't they killed you yet? Why haven't you killed them? That's why I'd do to that Orc.'

He made a slashing motion across his neck with his shackled hands.

'They are members of the Argent Dawn; viceroys, I believe.' I said. I slowed my pace so the others would catch up: I didn't particularly want to converse with this man.

'Argent Dawn, eh. Their order's powerless,' the brigand muttered.

'Why? What do you know about them?' I asked.

'They are some sort of farcical unity. Horde and Alliance. Supposedly to deal with the Scourge.'

That was not the first time I heard the word Scourge. I was intrigued.

'So why are they farcical?'

'Pfft!' He scorned. 'You honestly think primeval scum like them follow some kind of order over their natural hatred for you?'

'Well, why not?' I asked.

'Don't be so naïve!' he laughed, baring a mouth filled with yellowed, crooked, and several missing teeth. 'They aren't bound by their order! They're bound by instinct. And their instinct is that you, and him--' he pointed at Band behind-- 'are craven enemies. They'd kill you in your sleep. How did they end up here in Dustwallow?'

I thought. 'They were shot down in flight. Something about a windraider flying too close to an ogre camp in the mountains.'

'Ha!' He said. 'That proves it! I bet they were lost, and asked you to guide them out of the marsh!'

'Well, yes,' I admitted. I kicked a stone in thought. 'That hasn't worked out too well. Seeing as you are supposedly leading us out.'

'What do you think will happen once they are free from this place?' He said with a wry smile.

I hadn't thought of that. Perhaps we'd shake hands and bid each other a fond farewell?

The brigand continued. 'Once we get past the Shady Rest Inn, there will be three skeletons laying by the wayside, rather than one.'

I was thrown. What was the Shady Rest Inn? What does he mean by three instead of one?

Sena had caught up with us, and barged between us.

'I think you have been conversing with the prisoner long enough,' he said in a regal tone. He continued to trek, unperturbed, ahead of us.

I used this opportunity to drop back and let Rolore take the reins, literally, as he grabbed the brigand's shackles and pulled him along like a beast on a leash.

I ambled back to Band, who had fallen behind the group. Every few miles he would dart off into the undergrowth and use a large hunting knife to snatch a few colourful weeds and worts that grew amongst the ferns and bracken.

He would continue to walk, slicing each plant up into tiny shards. Then he would place the pieces in an enamel mortar, before grinding them with a pestle, adding some water, and placing each concoction into several vials, which clinked around in his pack.

'Quite a collection you have there,' I said.

'Yes,' he replied, still concentrating on grinding several deep-green leaves, which left a pasty mush on the pestle, and died the brown bowl a mouldy, algae colour. 'I'm quite the herbalist,' he added with a sense of pride.

I glanced at the vials in his open pack. They were all sorts of colours. Some glowed unnaturally.

'These drugs,' he said, noticing me peeking, 'are to treat all sorts of poisons. They also have beneficial, mind-altering effects. For instance, this one,' he indicated a warm orange liquid in a leaden vial that swirled hypnotically, 'this heightens the senses. It's called Catseye, and it's a powerful elixir. The Withervine creatures, who live to the north of here have access to its ingredient.'

'Oh, really,' I said. I wanted to be interested, but I was worrying about what the brigand had said. 'What do you think is going to happen to us once we're out of Dustwallow?' I quickly said

'Have you been talking to the brigand?' Band asked, concerned

'Maybe.'

'Did he tell you that the troll and the orc will turn on us?'

'Maybe.'

'He's trying to scare you,' Band said, reassuringly. 'To be honest, I've considered the thought myself. We are, after all, heading towards a territory with a heavy Horde presence.'

This was less than reassuring.

'However, I believe we will part company at the Shady Rest Inn, on the edge of Dustwallow. It's neutral ground, but has strong human influence. The pair won't have chance to make an attempt on our life. This is why we do not inform them how close we are until we reach our destination.'

'What about the brigand?'

'What about him? We can kill him or let him go.'

'But if we kill him,' I suggested, 'it would let the other two know we were close to the inn.'

Band realised I had a point. 'I hadn't thought about that,' he said, scratching his forehead. 'I suppose I should inform that pirate not to let on how close we are, lest he gives our position away.'

Band sprinted and caught up with Rolore, who was dragging the prisoner along the ground, and grunting heartily. He patted the Orc on the shoulder, and after bargaining, Rolore relinquished control of the battered man.

I had caught up by this point. We helped the brigand up to his feet. Rolore wandered ahead.

Without warning, Band lifted the prisoner up off his feet, and jammed his hunting knife against the brigand's neck.

'Let them know our position and you die. Keep quiet, and we will free you.' Band said viciously. 'No compromise.'

The brigand, with eyes frozen wide, nodded in agreement. Band dropped him and he fell to his knees. The force of Band's negotiation had drawn blood, which seeped silently out of the man's neck. Band threw a piece of dirty cloth at him.

'Clean yourself up, it is only a scratch.'

Once up on his feet, the brigand marched furiously. As he stormed past Band, he muttered under his breath: 'I would not be so stupid to do such a thing you foolish elf. Besides, we are already at the Shady Rest Inn.'

He pointed. In the distance, the great mountains parted, and a well-trodden track snaked between the pair of hulking monoliths. Beyond there lay the Shady Rest Inn.

Or perhaps I should say its charred remains.


	21. Rogue's Diplomacy

**Chapter xxi**

The Shady Rest Inn was a blackened husk; the foundations carved a large burnt rectangle in the stony ground. A few resilient timbers had remained steadfastly pointing to the sky. The remains of furniture sat forlornly and neatly arranged, exposed to the elements.

The road, the stables, the entire area was completely deserted. I felt uneasy. We were no longer lost, and it was time for the Argent Dawn council members to depart, unless we so happened to be travelling in the same direction. We could offer them nothing now, and there was not the protection of the Theramore or Dustwallow periphery guards to ensure our protection.

I had faith in Band, but his brute strength would probably not resist the strange powers of the Troll.

Looking around, I had seen everybody was thinking the same thing. They were all standing deadly still, yards apart, eyes transfixed.

_What do we do now?_ I wanted to say to Band, but he was too far from me to hear.

Sena slowly and deliberately withdrew his wand. He pointed it towards Band.

'You knew this moment would come. All of you,' he said sternly, slowly drawing the wand in an arc, pointing at Band, the prisoner, and finally me.

Band spat and stared adamantly at the frail figure of the troll. 'You are not part of the Argent Dawn at all, are you?'

Sena looked genuinely confused. 'What would make you say that?'

'Sen'Atal of the Darkspears?' Band laughed. 'They are a shamanic race. They have no time for the obtuse pomposity of the Magii.'

'It is true,' Sena darted the wand directly at Band, and a few sparks erupted from the tip, floating hypnotically to the ground. 'I am somewhat of an outcast from my people. Which is why I joined the Argent Dawn.'

'Yet you told us your position,' Band snapped.

Sena withdrew. I was under the impression that members of the Argent Dawn do not tell non-members their rank.

Sena let his wand dip slightly, and prepared us for the explanation.: 'I merely stated that I was on the Plenipotentiary Counsel,' he spoke, calmly. 'We are merely diplomats, and as such have no rank to speak of as yet. Like I explained, we were heading south from a small Argent encampment in Durotar to a Tauren town in the Thousand Needles.'

I had no idea what most of this meant, but my eye was distracted by the bandit we had caught. His chains had been surreptitiously loosened, and he had snuck behind Rolore whilst the party was staring intently at the exchange between Band and Sena.

With consummate ease, and before I could react, he slipped out a dagger tied with string to the lumbering Orc's leg and leapt back, cutting his bonds as he did so.

Rolore, reacting too late to save his dagger being swiped, whirled around and withdrew a meaty axe from his belt.

The Orc and the pirate were at a standoff. I could see the muscles tense in Rolore's bulging green biceps as he wrapped his large yellowed fingers around the haft of the intimidating axe.

The commotion had drawn the attention of Sena, who quickly pointed his deadly wand at the brigand. Band lifted his sword and pointed the tip right at Sena's eye. Sena had no choice but to withdraw his wand and aim it back at Band's torso.

This, I must admit, was a bizarre situation.

I quickly took stock of the predicament. In front of me stood a Troll facing a Night-Elf, and an Orc facing a pirate. With both pairs having drawn weapons in stalemate, my next actions would be highly decisive.

Why would Sena and Rolore turn on us? I was led to believe the Argent Dawn were peacekeepers. It must be the lack of trust between this rather unorthodox grouping of races that has been ever-present during our nightmarish journey through the unforgiving marshes.

Now we were in open ground, and apparently not lost any more, we had no need for unity. Band was clearly thinking it by giving the pirate a severe gagging order earlier, but Sena reacted first.

I guess I had been too naïve to think that everything would suddenly be roses and sunshine when we reached the Shady Rest Inn.

Standing on the threshold of the charred foundations, I realised that this could quickly turn into a bloodbath. The unfortunate ones would probably lie here, undiscovered, for, what: days? weeks? …ever? That didn't bear thinking about.

I came to the conclusion violence would be a last resort. As such, my next move was one of diplomacy.

'Help me out here,' Band said, urging me to take up arms against the Troll.

I calmly, and quite regally stepped in the centre between the two stand-offs. With their weapons held firmly, the four sets of eyes slowly dragged to my position.

'Nobody is harming anybody,' I said firmly. 'Lower your weapons.'

The pirate laughed a hearty 'arrr!' and waved his dagger around. Rolore raised his axe higher.

I raised my arms to instil a sense of calm. 'Listen,' I spoke, loudly and clearly, 'none of us have reached our destination.' I looked at Sena, and then to Rolore. 'You two have yet to reach the Hundred Needles,'

'Thousand,' Rolore barked. This was the first time I had heard him speak in the common language. I reeled back slightly. He huffed his disapproval at my mistake.

'Thousand Needles,' I corrected myself. 'I daresay you are even close. As for Band and myself, we have yet to find sign of the four priests that headed this way. They have most likely vanished; swallowed up by the Dustwallow Marshes. Or they are ahead, further down this road.'

'Or,' the brigand said quietly, 'burned to ashes in this forsaken place.'

'Quiet, you!' I snapped. 'You are only one hair's width from having this husk your final resting place. You've nowhere to go but back.'

'Kill him, then.' Band shouted at Rolore, who understood by motioning to swing the axe.

'No! Stop!' I quickly said before the Orc and the pirate came to blows. Thankfully, they did so, and the uneasy truce was reinstated.

'You' I said, nodding at the brigand. 'Take one step back.'

He did so. I drew my dented blade.

'Now lower your dagger.'

Slowly, the brigand did so, and lifted his arms in surrender.

Quickly, I pointed at Rolore. 'You do the same.'

By my body language, Rolore understood and did the same, though he kept hold of his axe, letting the head swing down and rest on the blackened earth.

I came between the two. Looking at the brigand, I said 'now run.'

He did so, sprinting towards the trees that marked the boundary of Dustwallow Marsh. We watched him disappear out of sight.

Once gone, I turned to Rolore and picked up his dagger. In a defiant act of nonaggression, I symbolically handed his dagger back to him.

'What are you doing?' Band said. He and Sena had not moved an inch throughout this. Band's blade was flagging, and he kept reasserting its position so the tip of the blade stood inches from Sena's neck. Sena did likewise with his wand, which was fizzing angrily. Both were taut, ready to spring.

Instead of running to Sena's aid, and risking messing up this whole diplomatic thing I had going on, Rolore opted to--thankfully--stand still and watch events unfold.

Feeling a little more confident in my negotiation skills, I marched up to Sena and Band, and stood between them. This forced both hands to withdraw wand and sword to retract a safe distance. Although I could see in Sena's eye that he could have pulverised me with a single flick of the wrist, should he need to. But that would also be underestimating the speed at which Band could have counteracted. Neither party wanted the indignation of injury, particularly in this empty, forlorn part of the world.

'Now,' I said as calmly as I could, ignoring the thunderous beat of my heart in my ears. 'We will talk.'

'About what, exactly?' Both Sena and Band asked, in a similarly suspicious tone.

Stepping back, I addressed the Troll. 'Sen'Atal of the Darkspear Tribe; you are a member of the counsel of the Argent Dawn. Whom is your enemy?' I asked the question with as much firmness as I could muster.

'The Scourge, the Lich, the forsaken scum that dare speak out against the army of Tirion Fordring,' he stated, regally, with much venom at each utterance.

'Now, do you see any being of that ilk in front of you.'

Sena looked on angrily, before admitting: '_no_.'

'And you, Band, son of Bandu,' I said, making note that addressing those by their full names and titles really helped the diplomatic process, 'who are you allied with?'

'The Noble Alliance, formerly under the services of Garran Vimes, Captain of the Theramore Guard, and currently the Feathermoon Stronghold.'

'Right…and who is your enemy?'

'The Horde.' Band shot his eyes at Sena.

'But this Troll is not Horde!' I said. 'Remember the badge he showed? It clearly was Argent Dawn.'

There was silence, before I continued.

'And as such, demands our allegiance.'

Band was unmoved. 'He threatened to attack us first!'

Sena butted in. 'I heard you threatening the brigand. Our ears are of similar size, and as such our hearing is of equal calibre to yours. Tact is clearly not your forte.'

Band struggled to riposte. 'What of it?' he asked feebly.

'You planned to attack us once you realised this is no neutral ground. I am a Troll, I am not stupid.'

This was quickly going to become heated, so I interrupted. 'Fine, we are all suspicious of each other. But we have no reason to be. None of us are sworn enemies; the only difference we have is race.'

I could see the two withdrawing from each other, slowly. My tactic was working.

'Now, let us discuss any future actions with dignity. Lower your weapons, now is not the time for fighting.'

Like precocious children, the Troll and the Night-Elf let their arms drop reluctantly to their sides. I gave a huge sigh of relief, which I disguised as a deep yawn.

'Sena, where are you heading to find this Thousand Needles?'

Sena pointed to the south, directly at the canyon walls of this desolate pass we were standing in. 'The Thousand Needles lies directly south as the Gryphon flies. However, we must venture west into the Barrens beyond, and then take the Gold Road south until we reach what is known as the Great Lift, and from there venture to a Tauren town by the name of Freewind.'

I turned to Band. 'And where are we headed?'

Band sighed. 'We have to act on the assumption that the priests made it through Dustwallow and have passed this way already. Unless a search reveals their remains here, which I doubt it will, then we can only hope they have proceeded along to the Gold Road.'

'Then we are all heading in the same direction!' I said brightly. 'There's no need to kill each other at all!'

'Don't be so optimistic,' Band said cynically, 'for the Gold Road is under the control of the Horde. It is not completely unsafe for travellers like us, as there are many havens and traders along the route, but it certainly gives the Troll and the Orc here the upper-hand if they feel like attacking us again.'

'Then that leaves me with one single option,' I said. As they waited for my response, I threw my plan into action.

"The plan", as it were, was rather ad hoc, but I had been running it through my mind whilst all this negotiation was ongoing. In fact, the diplomacy I enacted was primarily to keep the others distracted whilst I set "the plan" up.

It took lightning reactions, but I felt up to the challenge. I had been nervously rolling the ring on my finger around and around, and I felt the gem inset in the golden band draw and channel the power of the earth and the elements. This energy spread through me with refreshing vigour, the way gulped water does after a long drought. I was so happy to have found this ring in that abandoned watchtower; it made my movements so much lighter, as if I were walking on air.

What the others had not noticed whilst the talk was going on, was that I had withdrawn my cloak from my pack, which was left on the floor beside me.

With one deft movement, I swung the cloak around me, which immediately obscured my presence to the three onlookers. Not pausing to see the reactions of the three, I sprung forward. With my left hand, I snatched at Sena's wand, using my elbow to knock the staff clean from his unsuspecting fist. With my right, I snatched Band's sword at the hilt, straight from his relaxed fingers.

It was easier than I had intended.

I threw all the weapons out of reach as I darted in Rolore's direction. Being the greatest in hulk, Rolore was the slowest to react, which is why I left him last. His confusion was still apparent at the sudden disappearance of me, so I could easily wrench the axe from his two-handed grip.

I victoriously threw the axe onto the pile, and stuck myself between the three nonplussed characters and their weaponry.

I threw off the cloak, appearing in front of them.

'You have no reason now to be suspicious of each other,' I said triumphantly, 'only of _me_.'

I gathered up their weapons and threw them in my pack. They could only watch impotently.

'Do not worry,' I said cheerfully, chest pounding with adrenaline, 'I will return them all intact, should the need arise. Say, if we are attacked by wild beasts in the Barrens…'

I laughed, quite proud of the achievement that I managed to disarm three seasoned warriors right under their noses.

Amongst the barrage of dissent and anger directed towards me, I heard stirrings that echoed quietly off the canyon walls.

'I hear something--be quiet!' I told the mob. I realised there was something among us--a creature; most definitely not the brigand or his friends--creeping around our circle.

I drew my own sword and turned full circle. The disappointment that I may have to return the weapons so soon to the others washed over me; all that effort for nothing!

'What is it?' Band asked, cocking an ear.

'It is coming from behind those rocks,' I said.

Before I had the chance to let the weapons out of the bag, the huge creature leapt from behind the rocks, flying at speed towards us.

I gasped.

Band called out incredulously: 'Dunafalore?'

Mercifully, it was. That damned cat must have traipsed us all through the marshes.

'Where in Sargeras' name have you _been_?' Band reprimanded. The brilliant white striped sabre looked sheepish and pawed pathetically at Band, who could not stay mad at the beautiful creature for long.

He hopped up on Dunafalore, and turned to us.

'Seeing as I am weaponless, I would serve better as a swift scout, and will venture on ahead. You three are welcome to travel at your own pace.'

Before I could protest, he sped off westwards towards the Barrens, leaving me stranded between the giant Troll and Orc.

This was my punishment, I realised, for siding with the enemy. I looked nervously up at the narrow eyed pair, who looked down at me with disdain. I never realised _how much_ bigger they both were than me until now.

They could have ripped me limb from limb and merely taken their weapons back. I could see they were thinking it too because of the way they looked at me. Fortunately, Sena simply said:

'We should carry on until we find the road. I daresay we are all famished and in need of a long rest. There are many inns along the Gold Road. Come.'

He marched off. Rolore shrugged, and followed him, leaving me, alone, standing in front of the blackened remains of the Shady Rest.

I picked up my pack, which was nearly too heavy to carry, and trundled onwards to the next stage of our journey, regretting having stolen everyone's rather cumbersome weapons. I cursed every bead of sweat that trickled down my forehead, and looked angrily up at the sun, which had been hidden from me for so long.


	22. The Gold Road

**Chapter xxii**

The Gold Road twinkled, like sparkling gems, in the pale moonlight. It stretched for miles, both directly South and North, across the flat, scrubland plains. The twinkling came from a long chain of travelling carts spread out across the vast miles of dusty road, each wagon bearing goods, and many lanterns and fires. The glinting road snaked through low-lying hills and across vast fields of unfarmed earth.

Sena stood on a ridge overlooking the road, which stood several leagues away, but could not be missed, and breathed in deep.

'The air,' he said, in a satisfied tone, 'is so rich here. You can smell the zhevra steaks cooking on the griddles of many a wagon down there.'

I gave a deep sniff. The air just smelled of desert heat to me. Trolls must have an acute sense of smell, to be able to tell what's cooking from something so many miles away. I supposed if light can reach my eyes from there, then scent could reach his large, Trollish nostrils.

Sena turned to me. 'This land is not as dangerous as it once was, but it is still dangerous. You must take caution, human.'

And with that, he scraped a mound of clay-brown earth from the ground and shoved it into my face with his long, splayed Troll hand. I spluttered as he wiped the golden dirt across my face and hair.

'What are you--?' I tried to say, getting a mouthful of rich soil.

'Stay still!' he commanded. 'Your disguise is only part complete. Do you have a face-mask of some sort?' I did indeed have a leather bandanna in my weighty bag; the one I had taken from the Murloc huts when we rescued Band. It was filthy now, having helped me hide in the shadows on several occasions now. I was becoming quite attached to it. I wrapped it round my face and breathed in the musty scent of well-tanned leather. Sena continued smudging the area around my eyes (the only area on display now) and he also braided my hair in thick rows, tying it back with a dirty cloth.

'You don't look particularly Orcish,' he concluded, 'but it will have to do. Just don't say anything, and point at things grunting if you need to communicate with any non-Orc. Don't make eye-contact with any Orcs, either, as they are smart creatures and eye-contact reveals more about you than any other form of communication'

I nodded, and looked at Rolore, who grunted at me. I wonder how much he can read from the eye contact we make?

The caked dirt was drying on my face, and I could feel it cracking with each expression I made. I tried not making any facial movements at all, which is extremely hard when someone is talking to you. We passed a small, crystal-clear pool in the scrubland. I stared deep down in it, and saw my flawless reflection in the still water. The moon blazed in the sky, illuminating all as if it were day, and I could see Sena's work on me. The mud had dried a glorious golden-brown; my face looked patchy, like a clay pot that had been fired unevenly. I was not the deep vine-like green of Rolore, so I presumed Orcs came in shades of brown as well as green. The mud had darkened my reddish hair to a mousey brown as well.

We headed down the shallow valley towards the Gold Road.

'Why do they call it the Gold Road?' I asked.

Band, who had been hitherto silent on the haunches of the trotting Dunafalore, piped up.

'It has been a trade and supply route for over a millennia. You can see the endless procession of wagons and caravans snaking their way through. It runs right through the heart of Kalimdor. This is the Southern Gold Road; the ancient road in the north travels from Ratchet to Nighthaven, the far hallowed home of the Elves of the North. They call it the "Gold Road", because the Goblins set up huge waypoints along it, to transport convoys of rich gold from the mines; long before the Dwarves taught them their advanced mining knowledge. Once the other continental races started using it for trade, the Goblins set up waypoints—_turnpikes_—allowing safe passage of trade for a price. They're shrewd creatures, Goblins, but they keep to their word when there's money involved. Now there appears to be a free market for trade here, and all in Kalimdor exploit that, which is why it's like a thousand-mile emporium and bazaar. Now come, we must all be hungry. Let us see which caravan displays the most tender grilled zhevra.'

He galloped off, straight for the road, leaving me once again with more questions than answers. What was this Ratchet place? Elves of the North? Ancient roads? I desired more knowledge, but didn't want to pester the Night-Elf for wisdom any further. We trundled after him; Rolore sprinted off, Sena strode briskly, leaving me to stumble along with the heavy weaponry weighing me down. I might as well give them all back their weapons; I think they learned their lesson. Besides, any open combat now will draw more attention than any of them were willing to allow.

I trudged down towards the edge of the road. It did not look fashioned like the roads of Theramore (smooth stone slabs, (many of which I fashioned myself) the gaps lovingly and professionally filled with a mixture of fine sand and clay, ensuring nature did not plant its seed in the cracks and rend the stone after only a few seasons). Perhaps one thousand years ago, the Gold Road was a simple track of mud and earth, and the weight of uncounted wagons and boots had turned the dusty stony track into rock-hard road. I tested it with my foot. It was firm and smooth; perfect for the rickety wooden wheels of the plethora of caravans.

Looking down the road itself, I observed and studied the endless procession of caravans. Many of which appeared to be permanently affixed to the side of the road. Weeds ran up through the spokes of the heavy wagon wheels, and some were sunk deep into the earth. They must have stood, unmoved, for years. There was quite a bustle amongst the denser groupings. Many had brightly-coloured awnings and eye-catching painted designs; reds and greens and golds, and ornate totem poles held up the marquee tents off the sides of each caravan. One wagon that caught my eye had an array of skinned animals, hanging from a canopy. Sena was eyeing each slaughtered animal individually. There was a quilboar (sans head), a magnificent zhevra (unskinned), and a plainstrider, along with the head of an unusual creature I did not recognise: it was like a giant, reddish-orange lizard, except far bigger than any lizard I had ever seen. Judging by the size of the head, the creature must have been at least twice the length of me, I calculated.

Sena got into an argument with the trading butcher. He was pointing at the head, and slamming his fist on the wooden counter. The shop owner merely shrugged and grunted; he was a boorish-looking Orc, and he waggled a meat-cleaver menacingly as the disagreement increased. Sena eventually relented whatever argument they were having, and pointed at the zhevra carcass. The Orc disappeared into the back of the caravan and Sena turned to me.

'The fool had removed the brains from the raptor's head! What kind of imbecilic meathead does that? The brains are a delicacy.'

A _raptor_? I thought. I had only heard of those in books and tales. I had no idea they still existed. Judging by the tales of how savage they were ("unrelenting, voracious, killing machines" I believe was how they were described in Michael's Encyclopædia) I decided that whatever land they came from, must be a savage, _savage_ place.

'Where would he have caught that raptor from?' I asked, inquisitively.

'Oh, quite local' Sena replied. 'See those low-rising foothills?' he pointed to the West, where the plains gradually broke into jagged craics, 'they're only from behind there. I would not venture in there, unless you have some strong firepower behind you. They tend to attack in pairs, and are faster than you can react to. As such, they're extraordinarily hard to catch, which is why raptor brain is such a delicacy—and that buffoon threw it away as if it were offal!'

I was frozen to the spot. Raptors stalked an area only a few miles from where I was standing. I decided to turn my back on the haunting view of the craics, and focus instead on what other wares were for sale. Various Orcs, Trolls, and strange cow-like creatures eyed me suspiciously as I walked past their stalls. I must look like a thief to them, with my mask, cloak, and skulking manner. I tried to walk upright and proud, but then I realised I was supposed to be a lumbering Orc. This was ridiculous; I didn't have the frame for this, so I retreated to the shadows and watched as Rolore and Sena went from stall to stall, picking up various slabs of unidentified meats. Band sat upon Dunafalore, away from the road, and out of the roving eyes of the travelling tradesorcs. I snuck away and joined him.

'Not going shopping?' I asked.

He shook his head. 'In order to do so, I would have to pass as a Dark-Elf, which is an uncomfortable experience for me. I would have had to drop red dye into my eyes to get the right look, and it stings ever so. Also I never quite perfected the constant sneer that is a trait of the Blood Elf. I'm sure your experience of attempting to be an Orc was similarly discomforting.'

'It was,' I replied, peeling the caked mud from my face. Although, living so many days without a hot bath, I think I have perfected the smell of Orc-kind.'

Band laughed, and Dunafalore gave a wide, fanged grin.

'So where are we travelling?' I asked. 'Presuming the Priests made it out of Dustwallow alive, and reached this point, which direction would they have gone?'

'I am sure they would be travelling South, perhaps to Tanaris or the Shimmering Flats. If so, this means we will be accompanying Sena and Rolore for the remainder of their trek. Have you seen how they walk without fear amongst the Horde? The Argent Dawn aren't above suspicion in this part of the world, and if they were to be found out… Well, let's just say there are enough spies and antagonists around here who aren't as anti-Scourge as the tenuous alliance between the Horde and ourselves would believe.'

'What do you mean?' I asked—realising my role in this adventure appeared to be nothing but sneaking around and asking questions.

'The pair of them believe that they are diplomats, and with that comes a sense of immunity, but they equate this with invincibility. No, a bounder or a trickster would not care about their politics if they caught sight of their Argent badges—the gold in those badges is worth quite a lot of money to the right bidder, and in a relatively lawless land like this, it would certainly be worth killing for. I only hope our travels go unnoticed amongst the throngs that travel the Gold Road.'

I understood; Sena had certainly been covering his badge as they traversed between the caravans. Here, he was nothing other than a wandering Troll, and Rolore—well he looked like a wandering clueless Orc as it is, even though I had my suspicions that there was a cunning mind behind that rippling brawn.

The pair approached us, with sacks full of raw meats.

'We will prepare a fire over that small hillock,' Sena said, pointing behind us, 'so as not to attract beggars, thieves and idle wanderers to our table.'

Within the hour, we had an array of meats rotating on a spit over a glorious fire. The smells were unique and earthy, and Sena and Band fought over which herbs to roast the meat in. I was salivating at the thought of so much food, having not eaten anything aside from some meagre rations by the Shady Rest Inn.

'Well done, for me' I asked. Mystery Meat tended to give me a bad stomach, so I always played safe and ate my foreign food effectively charred. Sena turned his elongated nose up at me; offended that my gustation preference clashed with his culinary mastery.

I chewed on the blackened flesh of some unknown animal. It was not unlike cow, but richer and earthier that most red meats. There was a bitter aftertaste that made me wrinkle my nose.

Sena handed me a large warped bottle of red wine. 'Here; it's to counteract the bitterness. Zhevras eat a lot of plainsgrass, which is quite metallic in nature, as you can tell by the ore-rich mountains that surround the entire country here. It's quite common to cut open a zhevra and find stones of precious metals forming in their organs'.

I took great gulps of the wine, which slaked the sudden thirst caused by the meat. The wine had quite an effect on me. A fine bottle of vintage Pinot Noir, I believe it was.

'Where did you get this?' I asked.

'I bought it for less than a silver piece,' Sena declared. 'The Orcs around here are mighty good salesorcs, but believe me they are no connoisseurs when it comes to good wine. I often found myself travelling the Crossroads, and the capital Orgrimmar, finding wine that should cost several gold, for only a few copper coins. Back in my home village, I have amassed quite the wine rack. Fortunately for me, Trolls do not consider wine to be a luxury, or collectible, so I can leave the entire rack unattended without fear of theft!'

I continued listening to Sena talk about his hometown and tribe, all the while gulping the delicious, full-bodied wine. It made the meat taste lighter, and the herbs used to cook the meat added a fine delicacy. I should get the recipe, and catch a few zhevra myself.

An hour later I realised I was drunk, so I did my utmost to hold my reserve, until I saw that Rolore was squiffy as well. He laughed a deep glottal laugh at many things (I'm not sure what, though… At one point he pointed towards a butterfly and found it the most risible, jocular object he ever came across) and Sena and Band had quaffed their fill as well.

All in all, it was a rather merry night. The fire blazed long after the large buttoned moon had settled over the Southern Plains, and red hints of sunlight peeked between the shoulders of the Eastern Mountains. I curled up near the fire, facing West towards my home town of Theramore, wrapped my cloak around me, and slept a long, deep slumber, filled with pleasant, relaxed dreams.


	23. The Brambles and the Lift

**Chapter xxiii**

For days we travelled south through the unending brush. We only ventured on to the Gold Road for supplies, and camped out in the foothills of the Barrens Mountains. As the days drew on, the land became more rocky and desert-like. I awoke on a hot, cloudless night to an inky blue sky sparkling with stars, and a horrific pain in my back. I rolled over and reached to the spot between my shoulderblades: a large thorn, nearly the size of my fist, had embedded itself deep into my flesh. I yanked it out and gave a small howl, which woke the others (except Rolore, who was snoring on a rock some feet away).

"What is _this?_" I asked, holding up the vicious spike. It was like the thorn of a rose, but thick and barky light-brown wood. It seemed to have grown out of the ground in the night, as it certainly wasn't there when I laid my bed down.

Sena laughed a deep guttural laugh. "We are coming towards the Razorfen Downs; prepare yourself for a long arduous voyage through bramble and barb. Razorfen Kraul is a mighty city owned by the Quilboar. The Argent Dawn have taken quite an interest in this, as there has been report of the quilboar contacting the scourge. We've sent our best diplomats there, but the Boar Men are resilient. Rolore despises their kind, which is why we won't be stopping there. I have a fear that the Downs themselves are populated by the Forsaken."

I implored Sena to speak more, but he was tired and waved me away. I set about trying to bandage my sore back. I looked through the medicinal herbs in my pack. Sena had packed a dried Worg heart, so I sliced off a small slither, and ground up some Peacebloom from my own stash. Mixing in with some distilled water produced a strange rusty orange potion, which I rubbed liberally over my back. The sensation was hot and soothing. I wound a linen bandage around me to keep the potion from drying up, and went back to sleep. No further Razorfen brambles disturbed my sleep.

I awoke the next day to find further brambles had sprouted and wound around my pack. It took a few minutes to slice through the thorny vines; they were as tough as oak tree and resilient to my blade. Sena awoke and idly wafted his hand at the vines. They withered and withdrew. I liberated my pack and kicked at the shrinking weeds. Rolore chewed on a bramble, eyes staring blankly into space.

The day was hot and we set off further towards Razorfen. The Gold Road dissipated here and became little more than a wide dirt track. No travellers, adventurers, spies or salesorcs now lined the roads; it was quite deserted. We rejoined it and slowly traipsed over the dusty rock-track. I was finally glad to peel the dried mud off my face and let my skin breathe a bit. The mineral-rich soil had dyed my skin a rich coppery brown

The brambles grew more numerous and thicker. Now they were the width of beech trees, and thorny spikes curled around the scenery. Thick vines strangled the earth and the rocks of the low mountains, snaking over everything. They choked the valleys and burst from the hardened road. No grass here grew; the savannah plain of the Barrens had become brown desert, and the brambles were the only life here, aside from the circling vultures and rocs above.

We trudged in silence; the only sounds punctuating the hazy tangible air was the cracking and creaking of wood from the evergrowing brambles. Every now and then my eye caught the glint of bleached bone from a poor scrubland animal that had become trapped in the bramble. As we headed deeper into the Downs, I could smell a strong manure-like scent, which cloyed my nostrils

"It's the Quilboar" said Band.

"It smells like a pig farm" I replied.

Soon we came upon great totem poles, looming ominously over the road; each face bore a large boar snout and huge, oversized tusks. The wood had been crudely whittled, but it was still terrifying in its impressiveness.

"The Quilboar", explained Sena, "are a very tribal race. However most of their beliefs and understanding are bastardised forms of troll-lore. They've managed to harvest the energy of the earth using totemic magics, and have their own shamanic rituals, but all of it is a lesser form to what we trolls practice."

I took this opportunity to ask Sena something that had been bugging me. "Seeing as your Darkspear clan is so steeped in shamanic rites and controlling powers and energies from the earth itself, how did you manage to become part of the Magisterium?"

Sena leaned on his staff, and he gazed up to the amber-like object frozen in the tip, where the wood snaked around. The translucent stone blazed softly at its core, radiating a golden light and I saw it reflect in his large Troll eyes, which had glazed over. I think I might have touched a sore spot.

"To harness the power of Mage-kind was a choice of mine," he said, in a voice that was distant and weakened. "I… never was initiated in my clan as a child. I don't recall, but I eschewed all forms of totemic magic, and shunned the shamanic ways of my people. As a result," he let out a large sigh and ran his tongue over his gleaming tusks, "I was banished."

"Banished?"

"Perhaps that is too strong a term. Specifically, I was no longer welcome among my people. They maintained the façade of shamanism whilst trying to live the Horde way – looking to the future, to machines and material, wealth and power, rather than the mysterious roots of shamanism. I knew how to wield and manipulate the earth's elements, particularly fire, and ice, and arcane forces, and my people were stuck in the past with their strange rituals and sacrifices to appease various long-dead gods."

Sena proceeded to withdraw his wand, and waved it idly. Small blue crystals of ice formed at the tip, growing into large opaque hexagonal plates. With another wave, they shattered and the shards tinkled onto the hard ground, where they swiftly melted in the hazy evening sun.

"A great Mage, an undead hooded creature called Castillian, once descended on my tribe, trying to recruit members to his cause. I never saw his face, but there were two glowing points of light where his eyes should have been. The village elders asked him to take me away. He sat, and handed me this very wand. He simply said 'create, or destroy' and walked away. I looked at the wand, and felt the ground beneath me shake. I pointed it at one of the yurts, and then a great power rose up from the ground, and wound around me. It was a purple light that concentrated on my outstretched arm. I could not tell if I was controlling it with my will or the wand, but I _was_ controlling it. I channelled my energy upon the yurt and then a great volley of blazing energy erupted from the tip of the wand, and the tent burst into flame."

Sena slid the wand back into his robes. "I ran away from the village, afraid of the penalty I might pay for destroying the home of one of our most respected healers. Castillian was waiting for me. He took me under his wing, and taught me the ways of the Magisterium. It seemed so much more natural to me than the primitive ways of my people. I educated myself, learned to read the great works of men, and elves, and dwarves, and eredar. Soon I was the most powerful mage in the order, but I was never promoted. I became a Scout for the order, and extended our watchful eye for many miles, and over many lands. For that I was asked to speak for the Order of the Argent Dawn, as a member of the Plenipotentiary Council."

Rolore had joined us during this tale. Band and Dunafalore were ahead, and showed no interest in the nostalgic tales of a troll in exile. Rolore had narrowed his eyes to Sena when he said "I was asked to speak for the Order". Sena noticed this, and I noticed Sena noticing this, and he swiftly changed the subject, and began talking about his love for herb-lore. My suspicions were aroused immediately, and I did my best to not react.

Sena talked long into the night, about the history of his tribe, the great sundering, and how there will never be a unification of troll-kind until the Horde accept cannibalism. He spoke of wicked trolls, who worship the very deities that enslave them, of jungle trolls that can make snakes rain from the sky; of mountain trolls, who can command great avalanches, and of desert trolls, who can master the fury of the sand into great dustbowls, blinding all that can see. I busied myself making small vials containing flash powder; a silvery grey dust-like powder, which consisted of several crushed weeds and worts, and a tiny amount of spent gunpowder. When exposed to air, it would burst into a plume of asphyxiating smoke. I had amassed quite a few, considering the ambushing opportunities that threatened to greet us on our travels down the Gold Road.

We bedded down for the night, but the brambles would wind their way out of the rocky ground beneath us, and try to consume us. We eventually had to find a high point on the mountainside, and build a ring of fire around us. It gave us good protection from the creeping spiky vines, whose trunks were now thicker than my entire body, but I felt very exposed by the bright light.

The following morning we awoke to find the fires extinguished. Not naturally, but by water. Around our camp there were hoof-prints, and the ashes of the fire-ring were wet.

"Quilboar have been here," Sena muttered. "They must have been sent to douse the flames. I don't know how we weren't woken—or attacked."

It was a mystery we all pondered for the rest of the day. We descended into a deep valley, and were soon met with an impenetrable thicket of thorns and creeping vines. Our pace slowed to a crawl as we hacked and slashed through the undergrowth. By noon we had reached a path to the great city of Razorfen Kraul. In the distance we saw two guards, standing beneath two giant looming totem poles. I could see that they weren't human, but hog-like figures. Not unlike trolls but with fatter bodies and pig-faces. Rolore grabbed the haft of his axe, but Sena staid him with his hand.

"Our business is not with them," he said. We pushed on. The desert-like heat of the Barrens weighing down on my head. I developed a terrible migraine, and Band forced me to drink one of my disgusting potions. It made my blood run cold, and the thumping in my head subsided, and my vision returned.

As afternoon darkened and the first stars began to twinkle in the East, I saw off in the distance two huge mountains arching over the horizon. We were heading straight between them.

"That is the Great Lift", Band said, slightly apprehensive. It is a Horde stronghold, and rarely they allow Alliance members access to it."

I wondered what the Great Lift was, why we needed it, and why we were heading there.

"It offers passage down the chasm of the Thousand Needles," Band continued, though he would say no more.

We approached at nightfall, and I finally saw the Great Lift. Two huge platforms of stone jutted out into a chasm. Whether by magic or some immeasurable mechanism, the piers descended. We edged up the foothill of one of the mountains to scout a better look.

I could not believe my eyes; before me lay a chasm of blackness, where hundreds of needle-like rocks, fashioned by winds through time immemorial, rose out of the darkness.

"I understand why they call them the Thousand Needles now" I said under my breath. They were spectacular, gravity-defying monoliths. Rickety rope bridges swayed between the apexes. Each rock was only a few feet wide, with the broadest being no more than twenty feet. They looked like the great totem poles of the Quilboar; identical in proportion, but many times in magnitude. Even from here I could hear fell winds weaving through the pillars of rock.

"What's at the bottom?" I asked, trying to penetrate the gloomy black pit below the towering rocks.

"More sand," Sena spoke matter-of-factly, "and many dangerous beasts. It's safer to traverse the rope bridges between the pillars until you reach the Shimmering Flats to the East."

"Safer for you two, may be," Band said. "We'd be killed on sight." He turned to me and whispered: "this is Troll country, and they barely have tolerance for non-Troll Horde, let alone us."

"There is no other way down, than the Great Lift," Sena leaned in and interrupted. "I would wager that the outposts are guarded constantly."

He reached into his pack and withdrew a small wooden box. It had been magically locked (I knew because one night I had tried to lock-pick it, and the pick turned white-hot in my hands and burned my fingers. I never tried to sift through Sena's stuff again). Sena unlocked it with a flick of his wrist, and it opened to reveal a strange brass instrument, in pieces. Several glass lenses and brass cylinders were present, and he swiftly clicked them together like a jigsaw, and fashioned a large telescope out of them. We took it in turns with the scope, and I saw that the two outposts on either side of the lift were empty.

"They must be changing the guard," Band said. "Now is an opportune moment to get on the lift, if we can make it down the mountain side in time."

Everyone agreed – now was our only opportunity to make a dash towards the mysterious rock elevator. We slid down the steep mountainside, and Dunafalore bounded down past us carrying Band. He reached the lift first, and Dunafalore prowled around the area seeking for nooks, crannies, and hidey-holes where the enemy could be hiding. Satisfied, Band faced us and gave the "all-clear" signal.

We boarded the lift. It was a shiny, flat sheet of polished stone, roughly the width of a good-sized house, and perfectly circular. It seemed not of this world.

"Dwarvish stonemasoning, for sure" Band said. "This is akin to the finest rockpolishing of the Dwarven stronghold of Ironforge. How it can levitate like this is beyond my knowledge."

We stood in wonder on the floating platform. Suddenly, the identical rock plate next to us began to lower down the chasm.

"Quick!" I said, "we're on the wrong one!"

I leapt off the static platform onto the lowering one. I landed quite heavily on it, and slid across the shiny, polished surface. It was like ice, and I nearly slipped over the edge. I managed not to, however the inertia of landing so heavily made the rock plate tilt, and I found myself sliding further. I scrambled into the middle to stabilise the hovering platform, and stood up, trying to keep my balance.

No-one had joined me. I was on the platform by myself.

"Come on!" I cried. Even though by now, if they jumped the fall would be about fifteen feet—too dangerous for the others to jump without injury or accident, especially now I had discovered that the lift would tilt if disturbed.

Screeches came from above. I saw above me that a patrol of Trolls were sprinting across the rickety wooden bridge between the closest needle and the Great Lift platform. An arrow came whizzing from the darkness and clattered harmlessly onto the shiny rock floor. It didn't make a mark in the polished surface and skittered across the platform, sliding off the edge into oblivion.

I reacted fast and swept my cloak about me, hopefully making my form invisible to the archer from the needle-point above me. I shifted my position as much as I dared to the edge of the rock, in case they fired more arrows to where they expected I would be. The platform was still lowering and I could not see what was happening on the platform above. I was now over twenty feet below.

The patrol of Trolls had reached the platform now, and I saw a bolt of flame launch majestically into the air. Flashes of light and sparks erupted from the lift. I could not tell who was fighting who. Dunafalore leapt from the platform onto the ridge of the chasm and disappeared from my sight. A hail of balls of light and electricity gave chase. I recognised the ball of electricity – it was identical to the one the Murloc launched at me when I was rescuing Band, back in Theramore.

As the fight continued, I was drawn further away, down, down into the darkness. I could hear yells and yelps above me, and the clash of steel on steel, and the explosion of magnificent spells as they smashed against each other. But I could not see. The platform was simply a disc above me now, with all the action illuminating the skies and rocks above, and me below unable to see the outcome. A few arrows whistled towards me, but I was out of range now, and they harmlessly clicked and clattered against the chasm wall behind.

Suddenly a dark shape fell from the platform. I saw it fall through the air, in silence, heading straight towards me. For a moment, there was only the whistling sound as the shape fell faster and faster. It smashed into my platform, making a sickening thud, and the rock tilted upwards, sending me sliding down it. Thinking quickly, I grasped at the edge and clung on by my fingertips as the rock swung nearly vertically. The body slid off and plunged into the darkness. Slowly the rock returned to its horizontal position. I didn't let go, and the sharpened corner of the rock cut into my fingers.

The descent lasted for what felt like hours. The cries of the battle on the platform above died away, and it became nothing but a disc-shaped silhouette, framed by flashing lights, like a solar eclipse.

I descended, alone, into the darkling chasm of the Thousand Needles.


	24. Wail of the Harpies

**Chapter xxiv**

Silently I descended into the darkness, until I was enshrouded by black. Not even the moon penetrated this far down. The sheer cliff wall faded into a lightless abyss. I was alone, and still descending.

After some three-thousand feet the elevator came to rest. I reached over the edge of the rock plate with my foot, like someone testing how cold the lake is beneath the pier, in the hope of finding terra firma. No such luck. I took out a useless trinket from my pack—at least I hoped it was useless; I couldn't tell what it was in this light, and dropped it. I heard a clink as it struck the ground, and estimated I was only six feet in the air. Carefully I slid off the edge, and my feet touched the ground just as I prepared to dangle off. The large shiny rock disc – the "Great Lift" – was still, silent, and hovering just above the ground. I let go and stood on a hard rocky surface. The lift eerily began to ascend the cliffside again.

Rummaging blindly through my pack, I managed to find some dried parchment and a few flints. I struck them together, lit the parchment, and used it as a brief torch. It instantly lit up some dried arid scrub to my left, so I threw the flaming paper onto that. It enflamed immediately, and I finally got a good sight of my surroundings.

I was at the base of a sheer rock cliff—that much was obvious, and around me various needles of rock stood like silent stone guardians in a forsaken land. The ground beneath me was flat, hard, with sandy pockets. It was intensely hot and muggy down here. The strong, pushing winds I had felt on the way down did not reach down here. I felt slightly suffocated by the stillness and the humidity of the desert night.

The only life around me were large beetles that scuttled and scurried away when the fire began; their insectoid legs chittering and chattering on the hard rock. It made my skin crawl.

Then I saw the body—the one that had fallen from the other platform, onto mine, before sliding off and plummeting into the darkness. It was sitting upright, as if in repose, but I saw splintered bone peeking through the joints. The head was hung low, as if the poor deceased fellow had slumped down in defeat. Tentatively, I approached the dead thing. I couldn't tell, in this half light, whether it was Orc, or Troll, or Night Elf. Shadows danced on the wall around the dead creature. It was wrapped in cloth, which must have tangled up as it spun through the air. Oh please don't be Band, or Sena, I hoped. Rolore… not so much, but still.

I approached the silent, still body, fearing it might come to life. Only then I noticed the tusks. It was a Troll. But which troll? One of the attackers, or Sena? I lifted the dead Troll's chin so its face would light up in the blazing fire behind me.

It wasn't Sena. I was relieved. It was an unknown troll. Its eyes stared at me, lifeless, like a fish on a monger's table. I let the head drop and felt a pang of disrespect as a bone somewhere in the troll's shattered body cracked. I lay the body down on its back. The flimsy arms and torso made my stomach turn; it was like laying a bag of loose rocks and marbles down. The head twisted to the side and the chipped yellowed tucks pulled the dead Troll's face into a venomous leer.

I covered the body in some sheeting from my pack, and ladled a highly flammable potion onto the material. Using a smouldering stick from the brushfire, I torched the sheet and the Troll's body underneath, saying a few words of respect in the funereal style I was accustomed to. The body burned fast, and the smell of roasting Troll flesh began to cloy my nostrils, so I sprinkled some sweet-smelling herbs over the crematorium pyre, which ameliorated the stench. Better cremated than pulled apart by wolves and goodness-knows-what-else, I thought.

All night I waited by the Great Lift, waiting for either platform to return to the bottom. I could not go back up, not knowing what will be laying in wait up there. I would be completely exposed on the featureless levitating rock disc. Unless I sneaked up, hidden?

No, even my skill at trickery and stealth would not go unnoticed on such a terrain. It would be like a single green pea trying to hide on a gleaming white plate—I'd be eaten up the moment hungry eyes were upon me.

My only course now was to wait, and if nothing came, I would head East. That is where the Shimmering Flats lay, and that is where Band said the Priests would most likely be.

So I waited. The fire died down, and I buried the charred ashes of the troll. I left an X of two wooden poles, taken from the paraphernalia that littered the ground of the Great Lift, over the unknown Troll's grave. Of its belongings, a cheap silver necklace with strange symbols engraved upon its centrepiece, and several gold teeth, remained in the ashes. I pocketed the gold teeth, and lay the chain over the X. Perhaps the next Troll visitor will know who is buried here, and give them a proper send-off.

The fire illuminated what appeared to be a small indent in the sheer cliff face. It was about twelve feet above ground level. I took a burning branch as a torch and scrambled up the rock wall. The cave was roomy enough to sleep in, but was filled with a host of bugs and scarab beetles. I plunged the burning torch into the centre of the nest, and the crawling carpet of creatures scattered, leaving the divot warm, dry, and clear. I bundled my stuff up, climbed inside, and slept uneasily under my rogue's cloak.

I awoke to a dreary morning light with a fiercely aching back, covered in creepy-crawlies. A strange snuffling sound came from outside. I dared not move or breathe too loudly, despite a centipede crawling across my cheek. Its legs tickled my lip, as it investigated my nostril. I held my nerve, and silently picked the slimy creature off my face and tossed it out the cave.

The snuffling increased and turned to a pig-like snort. I think the centipede must have landed on it, and it began feverishly chewing away. The sound, combined with the intense tickling of one-thousand insects, nearly made me leap screaming from the tiny cavern.

I shut my eyes, focused myself, and wrapped the cloak—avec insectoids—around me. Cautiously I peeked over the ridge of the wedge-shaped cut in the canyon wall. Below me was a strange bipedal creature. Hog-like, it was, with a bearded face and large nostrils, but stout like a dwarf, tall as a gnome, and carrying a primitive pick-axe with a flint head bound to a crude wooden haft. It was chipping away at a small hole; no bigger than a rabbit warren entrance, and sniffing the ground. It was right below me, and was transfixed upon the hole, chipping and snaffling. My only option was to wait for it to leave, or leap over it, and tumble on the rocky floor.

More many-legged creatures emerged from tiny holes in the crevice, and without further ado, I leapt majestically out the cave, somersaulted, and landed several feet behind the creature, where I deftly rolled and ended standing, facing the creature, who had heard the landing, cocked its head like a cautious deer, and then continued snuffling.

Now I was on its level, I got a better look at the thing. It was clad in a hodgepodge of leather and cloth strips. Whatever clothes these were, were not fashioned with care or ability. Its hands were tri-cloved and hoof-like, wound in leather wraps, and its face was more rat-like, than hog. Its beard was a scraggle of untamed whiskers, and its ears jutted out, gnomelike. In between picking at the ground with the dulled tip of its crude axe, and sniffling around, it kept placing its hands in small leather satchel, where it would fiddle with something unknown, compulsively, before returning to the strange task at hand of discovering what lay in that hole.

Carefully I stole up behind it, and reached gently into the unlatched satchel. I felt a smooth, rounded object, like a metal clamshell, and removed it. It turned out to be an old brass pocket-watch. Broken, of course, with only the hour-hand remaining, one hinge missing, and a broken clasp. I reached back again inside the satchel and felt another object; warm, this time, possibly because the creature kept fingering it. It felt soft, strange, and elongated. I removed it, to find a waxy yellowed candle. The surface of the wax was grimy and practically paste-like due to the constant fumbling around with it. I went to return it. As I did so, very gently, the creature's hand shot into its pocket, and came across mine. It grunted, and wheeled around, grabbing tight onto my wrist with its slimy talon-like fist.

"Grawk!" It screeched as it came face to face with me. "You no take candle!"

It raised its pick above its head, and I wrenched my hand away. I took several steps back as it swung the stone axe wildly. Its eyes, sickeningly yellowed, blazed with a wild fury.

"You no take candle!" It squawked again.

"I don't want your candle," I said, dodging the clumsy swings, and threw it back in its face. The candle clicked harmlessly to the floor. The creature was not interested in the candle any more, as it carried on lunging at me with the axe. I was backed against the canyon wall now, and the furious little ball leapt at me with the pick-axe raised high. I ducked and the point sunk into the clay-like rock of one of the needles. I twirled around entirely and used the momentum to kick the little beast in the face. It flew back several feet and rolled onto the floor. I yanked the little pick out of the rock wall, leaving the creature unarmed. It picked itself up and charged me again.

"You no take Kobold candle! Wicked! Wicked!" it cried.

"There's your stupid candle" I said, pointing at the thing on the floor. But it paid the candle no heed, and flew straight at me. I used the butt of the axe to smash it directly on the forehead. It crumpled, dazed, to the floor.

So this is a Kobold, I thought, having read about them in Thomas' encyclopædia. It was picking itself up now, and wandering around as if it was drunk. I must have given it quite a concussion. Unfazed, it charged me again. This time I thrust my forearm beneath its armpit, and used the momentum of the rushing Kobold to arc its entire body over me, where I threw the creature some ten feet, where it clattered heavily into the rock wall. It slid down and landed heavily on its head. It lay unconscious for a moment, before waking up, jumping to its feet and charged me again. This thing just won't give up, I thought, until it's dead. This time, I swung the pickaxe like a club and the blunt side of the axe came into contact with the Kobold's cheek. The force of the blow lifted the creature off the ground, dislodging several gnarled, yellow teeth in the process, and the thing cart-wheeled across the canyon floor.

"I'll kill you if you come at me again" I shouted at the stout, foolhardy creature. But it wasn't going to attack again. Instead it ran off howling and waving its hands wildly in the air.

I composed myself and retrieved my pack. It was a rookie mistake, I realised, leaving my dirks in my pack. I should have them on me at all times. I holstered the dirks beside me, placed my agility ring of the monkey upon my finger (I loved the experience of suddenly feeling lighter and swifter each time I wore it), threw the pack over my shoulder, and tightened my cloak.

The Shimmering Flats lay east to me, and seeing as waiting here for the others was fraught with its own dangers, I decided to make my own way there. Band would meet me there, I decided, if he could make it down the Great Lift somehow. So I set off on the new leg of my adventure, and for the first time I was alone, in a place I didn't know, heading to uncertain territory.

Or was I? I heard a scrabbling from behind me. Turning around, I saw the Kobold had returned, with a new axe, and several friends. I sighed heavily, and withdrew my dirks. They charged at me, axes flailing, and I lunged, parrying one Kobold's axe blow, and delivered a spinning kick to the second, knocking it off course. As the third's axe came down upon me, I had to use the armoured layer of my grieves to deflect the blow. A sharp shooting pain shot up my arm as the hefty swing smacked hard on my forearm.

As the third Kobold recoiled I snatched the axe and clobbered it right on the head. It fell to the ground. The other two had recovered from their attacking move and simultaneously attacked me again. I managed to stick one in the neck with my knife, forcing it to scramble away from me howling in terror. The other one—the little creature from before—swung its axe with renewed vigour. However it was still concussed, and had trouble with coordination. I leapt over a low-flying axe-swing, and used the opportunity to bring my elbow down on its head. It fell to the floor. The one with the lacerated neck came at me again. I fended off one blow of its axe and stuck my knife deep in its chest. The patchwork cloth gave it no protection. It froze, and looked down at the ivory haft of my dirk protruding from its chest. It dropped the axe, tried to utter a few words in its strange language, and slumped onto the floor. I wrenched the knife out its chest and it coughed, spluttered, and breathed no more.

The second Kobold was recovering, and like its friend whose pockets I picked, seemed dazed and confused. It helped its friend up. The creature had had so many blows to the head I thought a strong gust of wind would probably knock it cleanly out, or even kill it. I stood my ground and kicked the lifeless body of the third Kobold over to them. They paid it no heed, and sprinted straight for me, yet again.

"_Please_, just _stop_. Stop charging me!" I begged, but these things were without resolve. I wasn't going to waste any more of my time, and would cleanly kill them this time. I readied myself.

Suddenly, they screeched to a halt. They stared up at the sky.

"Harpy!" they both screamed with their glottal voices. They dropped their pick-axes and ran away.

I turned around to see the looming shape of a winged creature descend upon me. It was shaped like a female elf, with elegant gold-auburn bat-like wings extending from her arms, from the elbows down. Beautiful, she was, yet terrible, with huge taloned feet, stained black with the blood of her prey. Instead of hands, she had blackened claws, akin to a bear's. She swooped down upon me and I rolled across the ground, narrowly avoiding the pincer-like talons.

Wheeling round, she gave a screech that made me clutch my ears and fall to my knees. It felt like a pane of glass was breaking inside my head. I wreathed in agony as she made another pass. As an extended talon clawed down to swipe my face, I grabbed a dagger and slashed furiously. One of the sharpened claws was cloven in two, and the conical point dropped down beside me. The harpy screeched again and flew upwards into the sky, where I saw several more circling above.

I needed to find cover from these screaming beasts. I ran across the chasm floor and weaved between the great mesas that towered high into the harsh white light of the morning sky. The land was barren, and the rock walls smoothed by wind or some ancient, dried river. There were no crags or caves or shelter; I was exposed to the elements, and the elements just so happened to be winged female creatures with sharp claws.

I ran and ran, and felt like the creatures were toying with me. They swooped threateningly, and I would have to duck, dodge and dive with each airborne attack. Their power of flight meant I was ridiculously outpaced. Perhaps this is how they stalked their prey: chasing them until they wear out, and then go in for the kill.

Well, I wasn't about to let that happen, so I continued running as fast as I could.

After two or three miles I started to feel my legs tiring, and realised this may be the moment where I cave in to exhaustion, and the beasts descend on me and have their fill. Then I saw ahead a possible saviour: a broken caravan lay semi-sunk in the dirt. It looked like a Horde caravan. The wheels had come off, and were sat broken against the canyon wall. With renewed vigour I quickened my pace, and dived through the smashed window of the tipped caravan.

Once inside I grabbed what rotting planks of wood I could and hastily boarded up the exposed window frame.

The Harpies descended upon the caravan, and it shook and baulked as they smashed into it. Splinters of wood flew about the carriage, scratching my face and arms, and small shafts of light pricked through as they launched a relentless clawing attack on the vehicle walls and roof. One talon smashed through the makeshift cover of the window, and I stabbed frantically at it. The screeching Harpy backed off, and once again I was exposed. I crammed myself into a corner, and found an unopened chest, still intact, protected by the harsh winds of the Thousand Needles. I swiftly took out a bobby pin from my pocket (spilling the Troll's gold teeth in the process) and jambed the lock. It open with a simple snick, and inside, to my joy, lay a slightly rusted crossbow and five tri-fletched bolts, alongside a few heavy pieces of leather, a sparkling necklace, some torn pages of a diary or notebook, and a few precious-looking gems. I grabbed the crossbow, and loaded a bolt up in the machine's bridle. It clipped in satisfyingly, and I aimed bow out the window. A Harpy, one of the smaller ones, was wheeling around ready to make a direct frontal attack on the window. I waited until it was no more than ten feet away. Its talon-feet were spread ready to crush my skull like an egg in a fist. I launched the bolt. It flew and sunk deep into the creature's naked pelvis, travelling up through its body. It slammed silently into the ground, dead.

The other Harpies retreated slightly and continued menacing the tipped cart from a distance. I counted four of them, exactly the amount of bolts in my possession. I would have to be a crack shot. I steadied my nerve. The Harpies were regrouping, ready to synchronise an attack. They tried flying in from an angle, forcing me to raise my head above the parapet of the shattered window frame. I would have to take a snap-shot and then duck back down inside the upturned wagon before I was sliced to pieces by the flurry of claws.

I took aim at the centre Harpy; the largest one, which was leading the charge. The Harpies, being naked, had a completely exposed front. I aimed for her chest and let loose the bolt. It struck dead centre between her breasts, with a large _thunk_, and I ducked back inside, just as the other three's claws nearly tore the entire side of the wagon off.

I could hear the wounded Harpy spluttering, and the sound it made as it hit the ground and rolled. Two down, three to go, I thought. And only three bolts left.

The Harpies were reticent to attack again. They knew they were up against a dangerous foe; one they were not used to in these desolate lands. One more attack, however, and the entire wagon would crumble under the force, leaving me exposed to the razor talons. I decided to try a bold manoeuvre; with my cloak on, I waited for the creatures until they were as high in the sky as they were likely to go. When this happened, I tried sneaking out of the wagon. I prayed their eyes were not as sharp as an Elf's, and they couldn't spot me creeping out.

I made it out. They didn't come wheeling down as I'd feared. I stalked up to the canyon wall, and strayed roughly twenty feet from the battered caravan. The two bodies of the Harpies were close by.

The three-pronged attack headed towards the caravan. I waited until they smashed into it: the side of the caravan collapsed entirely under the force of their huge clawed feet. I took the opportunity to loose a bolt on the closest Harpy. The arrow flew directly into the Harpy's ear, and it slumped into the empty caravan. The other two were concentrating on trying to find me in it, and were confused when one of their sistren suddenly died. I remained unnoticed.

The two remaining Harpies gave a shriek of rage, so high-pitched and raucous, every living thing in this empty land would have awoken at the terrible, ear-splitting sound. Not being able to bear it any more, I quickly loosed my fourth bolt. It sank deep into the left Harpy's shoulder. The thing fell off balance and tumbled to earth, crashing harshly on a rock, where it lay motionless.

One arrow left. One Harpy left. My rash decision to fire there and then on the fourth Harpy had revealed my location to the remaining one. Unexpectedly, it darted at me and before I managed to load the crossbow, it swooped in and lashed at me. I dropped the bow and ducked & rolled. The talon caught my back and I felt a sharp sting, like a mosquito bite. I acted too hasty, I told myself, and left myself exposed when danger is still present—these are the kind of mistakes that will get me killed. Still, I ignored the pain, and the warm tickling sensation of blood dripping down my back, and had managed to set the fifth bolt in the bridle. The remaining Harpy was fast, like a hummingbird, and would feint and dart about, unlike the others which circled like vultures and dived like eagles. I had to shoot now lest my head be ripped off by the incoming claws. I loosed the bolt, and it hit the Harpy on the wing. The creature flew off-course, nearly ramming head-first into the wall, before rectifying herself. She was wounded, and slowed, but not dead. And I was out of arrows.

The Harpy's wounded wing-arm was limp; she could still fly, but not dart around like she once could. The pain in my back was preventing me from thinking clearly and moving quickly, and we both circled each other, cautious of approaching. We were two wounded animals at a stalemate. And still we circled each other. The Harpy tried to deafen me with her screech, but she was too injured, and merely coughed and wheezed. Staying up in the air was obviously a huge effort, and she slowly sunk to earth. The creature did not seem comfortable walking on her talons. She was clumsy like a bird. Still, she would not flee, and would most likely fight to the death. Only now, as we stalked each other in an ever-decreasing circle, could I truly make out her features. Her face was beauteous and angelic, though she snarled with ragged, pointed, needle-like teeth. She was entirely naked save a small wrap around her waist, and her breasts heaved heavily as she growled. Her wings were now folded, and even though I thought they were bat-like, I noticed the plumage was more like an eagle's; the feathers golden, brown, red, and copper. Had she been an Elf rather than a screeching Harpy, she would be fairer than the fairest Elf-queen, but instead she was rabid and gnashing of tooth, like a diseased wolf.

We circled yet again. I had the bow hooked on my belt, and the dirks in my hands. However I wasn't concentrating on my footwork. Suddenly something below me tripped me up. It was the body of the first Harpy. I fell backwards into the bloodied dirt. The last living Harpy took this opportunity and sprinted at me, suddenly deft of movement and swift of foot. I panicked; I was caught entirely off-guard. Then I saw, on the dead Harpy, the three feathers of the bolt that killed her. I lunged forward and tore the bolt out of the lifeless Harpy's body. It was hot and slippery with blood, but I did not have time to make mistakes. I jammed the bolt into the crossbow's cradle, pulled the lever taut, and aimed up at the sprinting Harpy as she loomed over me with fire in her eyes. I let loose the bolt and it sunk deep into her stomach. She reeled back, winded, and collapsed onto the floor. I slumped onto a rock and saw the bloody scene around me; five dead Harpies, a smashed wagon, and feathers, feathers everywhere.

I could tell this would be one of the most dangerous roads I had ever taken.


End file.
